Faith, Part III: Peace
by Gabrielle Lawson
Summary: Doctor Bashir, has given up on DS9, Starfleet, the Federation, and life itself.
1. Chapter Eleven

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

* * *

Disclaimer: Paramount and Viacom own all things Trek, including DS9, the main characters thereof, the _Defiant_, etc. I only borrow their characters and settings. The stories are mine. Do not copy without including this disclaimer and my name. Do not post without permission.

Author's Note: This story does reference other stories of mine. The Faith Trilogy can stand alone but it might leave you with questions. However, if you haven't read Faith, Part I and Part II, it will leave you completely baffled. These stories can be found on my own web site, as well as here.

Also note: This story begins at Chapter 11. Chapters 1-5 belong to the first story, Hope. Chapters 6-10 belong to the previous story, Forgiveness.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to my beta readers. I've added a few more over the more than a year that it took to write this. It's been a quiet couple of years in beta reader land, but the story got finished and help came when I needed it. Thanks to all the members of the Writer's Circle and Darrel Beach, Peter, Sue, and Rachel, too. Egwene was invaluable, as well, as she helped me greatly with all the medical stuff in that story. Thank you all.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Julian Bashir turned back toward the door when he heard Ezri's shout. Part of him wanted to stay--the part that still held on to friendship and feared what would happen now that he didn't have Starfleet to protect him. The other part, though, reminded him that Starfleet hadn't been able to protect him thus far and that friendship could be betrayed. The door rolled shut before him, and he watched Ezri's concerned face as the shuttle moved away.

The shuttle went slowly--one-quarter impulse--until it cleared the station. He watched the station come into full view and then begin to diminish. He thought for a moment to burn it into his memory. Then he abruptly turned away. It was already there. He'd memorized every deck and viewport in the cave.

It was an early shuttle and therefore not full. Bashir went to his cabin and found the other two bunks there empty. So much the better. He didn't want company. He wanted to disappear.

He set his small bag down on the foot of the lowest bunk and lay down. He closed his eyes and tried to push his fears aside. They would come for him. He knew that. He didn't care anymore. Or he didn't want to. It wasn't that he'd let them win, let them turn him into someone like them. It was just that he was tired of fighting, tired of hiding, tired of breathing altogether. So he would let them come, then he would refuse to do what they wanted. Then he would disappear. This time for good.

"How could you let him go, Benjamin?" Dax accused as soon as she'd left the airlock, and Sisko was grateful now for the few seconds reprieve he'd had while she stood staring at the departing shuttle. He wasn't sure what had just happened with Bashir, but he knew he wasn't ready for this.

The others, Kira and O'Brien, had seemed just as shocked and confused, but now that Dax had broken the silence, they came to life again. "What just happened?" Kira asked, stepping closer to him.

O'Brien finally stepped into the room, though he still looked dazed. "He didn't," O'Brien stammered, as the door closed behind him. "He wouldn't."

Sisko rather hoped that was an answer to Dax and not just a comment on Bashir. He stayed silent for a few seconds, wondering if the Chief would say more. When he didn't, Sisko turned back to Dax. He rubbed his eyes as he spoke. "I couldn't stop him, Counselor. He resigned."

"You didn't have to accept it," Kira argued, but she wasn't angry yet. When she was angry, a fire blazed in her eyes. Maybe it was too early in the morning for that. Maybe she was still trying to understand what she'd just seen and heard. "We don't have a replacement CMO. You could have made him stay that long at least."

Sisko face began to heat up. He hadn't thought of that. He had tried to convince Bashir to stay. He hadn't thought of coercion. "I still haven't accepted it. I barely had a chance to read it. He didn't give me any time. He was going to leave without saying anything. I couldn't force him to stay."

"Yes, you could," Dax said, and now she seemed so much taller and stronger than Ezri's lithe form. She stood on his left, while Kira was on his right. The Chief was closing in on them from the front. "By my recommendation," she continued. "I relieved him of duty. He wasn't competent to make a decision like that."

"Wasn't he?" Sisko threw back. He didn't like her tone. This had become an interrogation, and he didn't like how it felt. He was still captain, still their commanding officer. "You let him practice medicine until yesterday. Counselor Troi found him competent."

"It's more complicated than that," she replied, glaring at him. Apparently, she was not overly interested in rank this morning. "He was hiding something, something about you, and I think you're hiding it, too. If I hadn't heard you try to talk him into staying, I would have suspected you wanted him to leave."

"What?" O'Brien asked, clenching something in his fist. But he wasn't asking Dax. "Why would you want him to leave?"

"You're right, Old Man," Sisko barked, ignoring the Chief and letting his disappointment and frustration take over his temper. "It _is_ more complicated than that." He turned and started for the door, brushing past Kira and trying hard not to see that fire in her eyes.

"Then talk to me!" Dax demanded, catching up to him. "He wouldn't, and I couldn't help him because of that." She calmed a bit, placing a hand on his arm, and there was a hint of fear in her voice. "We can't let him go. It's not safe for him out there, Benjamin."

"It wasn't safe for him here," Sisko argued, though he wasn't sure why he did. He agreed with her, after all. His voice was softer now. He stopped at the door and faced her. "We couldn't keep him safe."

O'Brien stepped up, eyed the captain with grim determination. "We could do a lot better than a transport shuttle. But he knew that. He wants them to take him. And if you've got something to do with that, captain or no captain, I want to know why."

Sisko found he didn't much care for rank this morning either. Some things just managed to override protocol on occasion, such as concern for a friend. But now Sisko felt his disappointment in Bashir melting into fear. Bashir had turned? He was willfully giving himself to Section 31? That was just wrong, more wrong than the fact of Section 31's existence in the Federation. "Why?" he heard himself ask. "Why would he join them?"

"He doesn't want to join them, " O'Brien replied, still angry. But he unclenched his fist and showed Sisko the comm badge--Bashir's, it would seem--he held. His face was pale, not red as Sisko would have thought. "He wants to defy them. He wants to die."

Sisko's breath froze in his chest. He'd had no idea Bashir had sunk so far, but now he didn't need O'Brien to explain further to realize that it was true. Bashir's actions, and his words, made more sense now.

Kira apparently didn't agree, though. She stepped around the Chief and took the badge from his hand. "What?" she asked him. "Why would you think that?"

"Later, Colonel," Sisko ordered, feeling his rank again. He was sure they were already running out of time. "Right now we need to get that shuttle back."

* * *

Commander Riker rubbed his chin as he yawned and then sat down to check the logs.

"Goodnight, sir," Simmons offered before heading to the back.

"Get some rest," Riker ordered with a light smile. "We'll be entering the Faeros system in three hours."

Simmons grinned. "I'll be sure to keep my boots on."

With that he was gone, leaving only Riker and Dayton at ops and helm. The logs, Riker noted, were precisely in order. He'd have to remember that. Simmons had an evaluation coming up next month.

The runabout suddenly lurched to starboard. The inertial dampers compensated, but not before Riker heard four distinct thumps from the back. Riker looked at the woman beside him. She didn't bother looking back, but kept her eyes on the console in front of her.

"I hope you have a good reason for changing course, Lieutenant," Riker barked as he put away the logs.

"I do, sir," she replied, still not looking up.

Riker waited a moment for her to share the reason. He didn't know her well. Admiral Necheyev had insisted she be a part of this mission. He checked sensors but could not detect any other ships, enemy or otherwise, in range. And then, he wondered why none of the four in the back had come forward to complain about being dumped from their bunks.

Riker stood and leaned over Dayton's console to see just where she was taking them. His eyes widened when he saw the heading, and he spun Dayton around in her chair. She finally looked up at him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Furthering our mission," she replied, and Riker realized she hadn't bothered to say "sir."

Riker's hand fell to the phaser at his side. "What mission would that be?"

Dayton didn't appear intimidated in any way. "The mission to find the illustrious Dr. Pfenner, of course," she said. "And, really, Commander, the weapon is pointless. If you'll have a seat, I'll be happy to explain."

Riker's felt the heat rise in his face. But he sat. She might have been a changeling, but she could have attacked him at any time, especially after such an obvious course change. She couldn't expect to stay hidden. But there was another possible reason for her sudden insubordination. "What have you done to the others?" he asked.

"Sleeping," she answered with a smile, "just as they should be. The effect should wear off by the time you reach your destination."

"I thought this was _our_ mission."

"You got me there," she admitted, and her smile widened a bit, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Then it was gone and she was all business. "We _do_ have the same goal, that being Dr. Pfenner, but we'll be achieving that goal in different ways."

"What does Section 31 want with Pfenner?" Riker asked, taking the risk that he had guessed wrong.

"It's what we do," she answered, confirming his suspicions. She cocked her head and a bit of her hair fell across her forehead. She pushed it back. "We protect the Federation from its enemies, including those who happen to be its citizens."

Riker nodded, understanding what she meant by that. "What proof do you have that Pfenner is a traitor?"

"We don't," she replied, turning again to the console behind her. "But that is why we're helping you to find him." With her head bowed like that, the back of her neck was fully exposed beneath her short-cropped hair. Ordinarily, Riker found that part of a woman's anatomy alluring. Now he just wanted to throttle her.

He ignored that impulse. "Helping?" He was getting tired of asking questions, but she left him with far too many to be ignored. "How is commandeering my runabout, drugging my crew, and putting us on a direct course to the D'Nexi Lines considered helping?"

"Because you won't find Pfenner in the Faeros system, despite the information Starfleet Intelligence provided." She ran her hands over the console once more. "Well, my part here is nearly done. Don't bother trying to change course. You won't find Pfenner in any other direction. You could disable the runabout, but that would leave you drifting in hostile territory. Not a wise option. Calling for help would likewise delay your mission, and I think you know how vital it is that we find the good doctor. We cannot allow the Dominion to perfect K-Layer Subspace Concealment."

At least on that point, Riker could agree. Once DS Nine had determined the nature of the Dominion's experiments, Riker had campaigned hard to get a mission to find Pfenner or destroy his work. He had volunteered for this one almost before Necheyev had had a chance to finish her first sentence in ordering it. He just didn't like being used this way. He found himself thinking about Bashir and wondering if this was the sort of situation Section 31 had tried to put him in.

"What's your part?" he asked her as she stood and straightened her uniform. She'd said she was nearly done and it was clear she was planning to leave. "You obviously have superior resources. Why do you need us to get Pfenner?"

The corners of her mouth tipped up slightly as she looked down at him. "You? We only need you because he would never go with us."

"Who? Pfenner?"

Her smile increased again, reaching all the way to her eyes. She touched her right arm with her left and disappeared in a shimmer. Riker hadn't seen any device on her sleeve and was still trying to figure out how she'd transported with full shields from a runabout at warp when he heard the soft whir of the transporter again. Then he knew she hadn't meant Pfenner at all.

* * *

"Good morning, Admiral."

Ross spun around, nearly dropping his breakfast. Then he saw the owner of the voice. "Sloan."

Sloan was sitting on the couch, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other. "Sleeping in?"

Ross sat down at the table, deciding he did not want to give Sloan the satisfaction of disturbing his meal. "A rare luxury in this war."

Sloan seemed to accept that. "I have to congratulate your people on cracking the case," he said, offering a bright smile. "I would have congratulated Captain Sisko personally, but I don't think he'd be happy to see me."

"And you think I am?" Ross retorted, taking a bite of his eggs. "Bashir was right. You are slipping."

Sloan raised his hand to his chest in mock sincerity. "You wound me." His hand lowered back onto his leg, and he dropped the faux-sincere tone. "We have business to discuss."

Ross took a long sip of his coffee in an attempt to settle himself. "I finished my business with you on Romulus," he finally said.

Sloan put both feet on the floor and leaned forward. "Do you really think so, Admiral? You might want to ask Doctor Bashir." He stood. "Oh, wait, you can't. He isn't here."

_Not again,_ Ross thought. He set down his fork and turned to face Sloan. "What do you mean he isn't here? What have you done with him?"

Sloan raised his hand again, and this time his tone spoke of hurt. "Me? Oh, you mean us?" He stepped closer to the table. "Actually, Admiral, he resigned. Took the early shuttle and left the station this morning." He pulled out a chair and sat down, relaxing into the chair. "But, if you want to get technical, he's no longer on that shuttle. And that would be why we have business to discuss. Please, finish your breakfast."

Ross set down his fork. He didn't feel much like eating anymore.

* * *

"I don't understand it myself," the shuttle captain said. "You're sure he boarded?"

"We saw him board the shuttle," Sisko replied, trying to hide his frustration, "just before you took off."

"That doesn't make sense. We haven't stopped and we've not seen any other ships yet. We've searched every inch of this vessel. He's not here."

Sisko sighed. He'd been afraid of that. Section 31 hadn't wasted any time. Bashir was gone and it wasn't likely they would find him. It had taken six months last time and the only reason he'd been found was because he'd wanted to be found and had worked hard to make it possible. This time, if O'Brien was right, Bashir didn't want to be rescued. He wanted to die.

"Thank you for looking, Captain," Sisko said. "He had a bag with him when he left."

"We did find a bag that no one else claimed."

"Could you please send it back to us?"

"Of course," the captain agreed. "I don't know how he left this ship, but I hope you find him, Captain. Good luck."

"Thank you. Safe journey."

The line closed and Sisko felt the darkness the Prophet had warned him about pounding in his head. He could guess at what this latest move was going to cost Bashir, but he wondered still how it would affect himself. The Prophet had said he was lost in darkness, and Sisko could concede that part. He realized that the only reason he could concede was because of his confrontation with Bashir. There was a proverb somewhere to fit that: There can be no darkness without light, no good without evil. It takes one to show the existence of the other. Bashir, darkened even as he was, had already been light to show where Sisko was dark. What now, now that he was gone?

* * *

The bunks were all taken by the original members of Riker's team. There were four bunks. Two people were supposed to be on duty at all times. But now there were five who were asleep--or, rather, unconscious. He'd found the other four on the floor in the rear compartment, obviously having fallen out of their bunks. It was hard enough getting two of them back in the lower bunks, but he'd also had to lift the other two to the upper ones. Which left no place for Bashir.

And right now, as he watched the stars fly by outside the cockpit viewscreen, Bashir was the one he most wanted to wake up. The doctor was transported in unconscious, and Riker had been forced to leave him lying there on the deck. He was wearing civilian clothes, but a folded uniform had materialized at his side with a paper note pinned on top. "He'll need this," it said and nothing more.

Riker had a lot of questions, especially since Bashir had shown up. He discarded the note, since it didn't answer any of them, and placed the uniform under the doctor's head as a makeshift pillow. Already this trip was longer than he'd planned. Dayton had left more than two hours before, and according to their new heading they'd be nearing the D'Nexi Lines in five more.

_Hell,_ he thought. _If I wanted to go to the D'Nexi Lines, I would have stayed on _Enterprise. The Klingons had been holding the Lines and the _Enterprise_ had just received orders to join up with Admiral Dlouhy's group to help push the Dominion back there. Necheyev's orders had superceded though, and so Riker and the runabout had diverted toward Faeros after a possible sighting Starfleet Intelligence had reported. But it was apparent now that Section 31 had different plans and better resources. And he didn't have any other choices just now. So Riker waited, alone in a defenseless runabout, heading towards this sector's most recent active front.

* * *

Kira felt sick. She, O'Brien, and Dax had talked in a tight huddle in Ops while trying to get the shuttle to turn back. O'Brien had shared some of his conversation with Bashir the night before. Dax still wanted to honor her patient-counselor confidentiality, but Kira could read in her face the confirmation of O'Brien's words. Bashir was committing suicide. It was a rather elloborate, drawn out way to go about it, but it was still suicide. He was setting himself up to be killed by Section 31. But the details didn't matter to her so much as just the fact that he had given up. That Julian Bashir should give up on life was a thought she had never expected, nor wanted, to think. The only times he had done that before were in Auschwitz and under such circumstances as to make a death-wish understandable. In one, he'd been faced with beating another prisoner to death. He chose death for himself, but wasn't given the option. In the second, he was faced with a relatively slow death in a gas chamber full of screaming, dying, crushing people. He took a breath, allowing the gas to enter his lungs and kill him quicker. The choice was taken from him as he was saved at the last minute.

This was different. He was healthy; he was whole. He'd been freed from a solitary existence in a dark cave and returned to his post and friends. He was still faced with hard choices and difficult circumstances, but not enough, in her mind, to warrant a desire to die. And if that were enough, it would be so for other people, not for Doctor Julian Bashir. He was a bright spot on this gray station. Too bright he'd seemed at first, and she had resented his presence. Time, though, wore her resistance to him down, softened his edges, and allowed her to see the good in him. His brightness became something she valued. The war had darkened it but had not managed to put it out. She had missed his light when the station was occupied, and even more when he was marooned. She had so hoped to see that brightness again when he returned, but now that she knew, she realized it hadn't returned with him. O'Brien was right. And it made her stomach turn to wonder what could have killed his spirit. Even more, it unsettled her to think the captain, the Emissary, knew and had known all this time.

A small light blinked on her console. It was time. They had scheduled a meeting in the Ward Room to discuss Bashir. She locked her console and called over her standby before joining Dax and O'Brien on the turbolift platform. "Any luck?" she asked, hoping one of them would have an affirmative answer.

O'Brien shook his head sadly. "They took him," he said, dejected. "I'm sure of it." The turbolift began to lower.

"So soon?" Dax asked, sounding as young and naive as she looked. "They were going to search the shuttle."

"But the captain didn't come out to tell us he'd been found," O'Brien argued. "They were done with their search. If they had found him, he would have told us."

Kira's stomach felt even less secure on the moving lift. "Let's just wait to hear what he says," she offered, wanting to hold out hope, but too practical to really think O'Brien was wrong.

They were the first to arrive in the Ward Room. Odo came in and took a seat. Sisko and Worf arrived together not long after. Dax barely waited for the door to close behind the captain. "What did they say? Did they find him?"

Sisko shook his head slowly and sat down. "They couldn't find a trace. Except his bag. They're going to send that back to us."

Kira sat down next to Odo and felt his hand reaching for hers. She took it and he squeezed just a bit, letting her know that he understood. It helped. "So what do we do now?"

"We start talking," Dax said. "We each have a piece of this puzzle, but none of us knows the full picture. How did he come to this?"

* * *

Sisko waited while they each discussed what they knew of Julian since his return. Dax told how he wasn't sleeping. Kira reported his work in the lower levels. O'Brien recounted a bit of his conversation with the doctor the night before. Odo and Worf didn't have anything to add, so they just listened. That left him. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what he had to do next. It was the only thing he could think of, and it could cost him the trust of his staff. But if he didn't do it, he'd lose it for sure. He was the last piece of the puzzle, and they all suspected him already.

O'Brien and Dax were watching the captain sharply, and Sisko wondered which of the two would be the first to bring the subject up.

But it was Kira who broke the uneasy silence that had settled over the group. "So what did you have to do with it, Captain?" she asked, her voice still offering some measure of respect. "There is something between you two."

He could just stall them with the easy stuff: the order to go with Section 31, his disappearance after Jadzia's death. He could, and they might be satisfied that Julian's recent isolation and exhaustion had amplified everything to the point where he was suicidal. But it wasn't enough to discount his loss of faith in everything and everyone. One uncaring commander couldn't do that. Even Section 31 couldn't do that. No, a commanding officer that stepped over the ethical line--with Starfleet's approval--, that might be enough to push Bashir over the edge. Bashir had tried to hide his turmoil during his time on the station and Sisko had helped him to do it. But in doing so, he hadn't helped Julian at all. Julian was falling apart and Sisko just stood and watched him crumble. It was past time for the truth.

It was just that the truth was a hard thing sometimes. This time especially. He looked each of his officers in the eye, trying to determine what they'd feel for him when this was over. Worf wouldn't be much of a problem. He'd never been overly fond of Bashir anyway, but he was honorable to a fault, and what Sisko had done was not honorable. That said, he had sacrificed a key intelligence mission for the sake of his wife. He might understand that the stakes outweighed the question of honor. O'Brien had made hard decisions, too, in the past. He had fought the Cardassians before. He would probably come around eventually. Dax was there when the idea had taken shape, if not the specifics. But Ezri? He hadn't known Ezri then, and he didn't know her all that well now. Kira had been a resistance fighter--a terrorist, the Cardassians would have called her. She had said several times that she wasn't proud of everything she did back then. Maybe she would understand. Odo. . . . Odo. Sisko remembered Kira's aloofness toward the Security Chief immediately after they had retaken the station. He had linked with a Founder after promising Kira he would not. He had jeopardized their fledgling resistance movement and the lives of Rom and herself. The allure of the link had been too strong.

"Constable," he said. "Secure this room."

Odo got up and walked to the door. Worf pulled out a tricorder and both concurred that what was said in the room would remain private.

Sisko took another breath, and faced Odo, who was still waiting by the door. "We need to have a talk, and what we say--what I say--here, cannot leave this room. Which is why you'll have to."

Odo cocked his head to the side. "Excuse me?" His voice was just a bit more gruff than usual.

Kira stood up from her seat. "What have you got to say that our Security Chief--our _Bajoran_ Security Chief--can't hear?"

"Some very serious things, Colonel," Sisko replied, staring her down. "Some of the things that drove Doctor Bashir into that shuttle. And it's not that I don't trust Odo, but he isn't a Bajoran. He's a changeling."

That wasn't at all how Sisko wanted to get Odo out of the room. He wasn't even sure why he'd ended up starting the way he had. Odo crossed his arms and grunted. Sisko knew just what he was thinking.

"But I'm not a Founder," Odo held. "Haven't we established that?"

Well, it wasn't exactly what Sisko thought he was thinking. And the captain was even surprised to hear a bit more hurt in Odo's voice when he'd expected anger and sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, Constable," Sisko said. He looked back at Kira again and waited until she sat down again before turning back to Odo. "But you are a changeling and you've had problems with that distinction in the past. Can you guarantee you'll never turn you back on us again, as you did during the occupation?"

Odo's eyes dropped to the floor.

"Can you promise," Sisko went on, "to never link with a Founder again? Ever? Because that's what I'm talking about. Not just for the duration of the war. Not just for our lifetimes, but forever. Or until the Federation ceases to exist. Can you promise that?"

Odo didn't speak. And now Kira's head dipped forward. Odo turned toward the door, but Sisko held up a hand to stop him for a moment.

"I'm not leaving you with nothing, Constable. We still need to find him. There's no one I trust more to do that than you. And when we do find him, we've got to find a way to keep him safe."

Odo nodded once and stepped outside the door.

Sisko looked at the others. "Can any of you make that promise? You know that there was something between Julian and me that pushed him toward that shuttle. But you need to know what you're getting into. You need to know that what I am about to tell you will make you accessories. Julian knows. That guilt is part of why he left. If you don't want that, if you aren't willing to live with it--for the rest of your lives--step outside with Odo."

No one moved. O'Brien was openly suspicous now, glaring from his end of the table. Dax's brows were pulled down over her eyes as she watched him. Worf was all business. He did not so much as twitch to give his emotions away. Kira had raised her head, but not her eyes.

Sisko's mouth went dry. He'd been thinking of how to start this ever since they left the shuttle bay. But he'd also thought of how to tell Odo he had to leave and that hadn't gone so well. _I made a deal with the devil,_ he thought. _It's not supposed to be easy._ And he thought maybe he should have invited Garak, but he dismissed that quickly. Garak had done what he did, but he had also played a big part in the fight against the Dominion and their Cardassian allies, at serious risk to himself. He didn't deserve any more punishment from this crew than he already got. Besides, it was Sisko's decision. He could have stopped anywhere along the way.

He finally just started talking, letting the words leave him as they came to his mind. "It's worth repeating: What I say here can't leave this room. Not in words; not in actions. Not in long looks or damning glares. None of you were ever supposed to know this; no one was. Julian found out and he couldn't cover it up. It led you to question. And now you're going to know. And it can't lead to more questions. If the Romulans ever found out, they might end their alliance with us. If the Dominion ever found out, they might make sure the Romulans did, too. If we win the war and the Romulans find out then, we might be at war again. Now or a hundred years from now. That is the danger. No one can ever know."

"The Romulans?" Dax asked. Her eyes widened and Sisko knew she'd guessed. "How?"

"I'm coming to that, Old Man," he told her, "but everyone needs to understand the risks." He waited until there were nods all around the table. Sisko turned to Worf. "Commander, tell us how the Romulans came to join the war."

* * *

Riker saw the ships on long-range sensors just before Bashir awoke. The doctor's eyes simply opened and his eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he looked around. Then his gaze fell on Riker and the commander could sense the anger newly mixed in Bashir's expression. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice harsh and a bit course.

Since the instruments in front of him did little good, Riker turned his whole attention to the doctor. He looked quite different from the last time he'd seen him. No uniform, for one thing. That was still folded on the floor as Bashir stood. He didn't bother to pick it up. But there was more than that. His eyes looked hollow and his face was thinner and maybe even paler, though Bashir was still dark-complected. Riker guessed that things had not gone well on the station, and he felt sorry for the doctor.

"We're in a runabout," Riker answered, making sure to use the first person plural to show that they were in this together. "Have a seat."

Bashir didn't move, except to examine all the walls, the ceiling and the deck. "Is this another hologram?"

Riker didn't get the reference. "What hologram? This is a runabout."

"You said that already," Bashir pointed out, and he gazed at Riker with obvious suspicion. "How do I know you're not just programmed to say that. They've used holograms before and I won't be fooled again."

Riker nodded, understanding now. Section 31. "Ask me something," he offered. "Something only I would know. From Carello Naru, the cave. No one else was there."

Bashir's eyes narrowed as he considered this. Finally, he offered his question. "Who held the door?"

Riker pulled in a breath. Good question. That was not something that Section 31 was likely to know, or at least he hoped they didn't. It hadn't ended up in his report because he still wasn't sure he could believe it himself. Still, he knew the answer Bashir was looking for. "Vláďa," he replied. "The kid from the camp."

If he'd thought to gain Bashir's trust by that answer, he'd apparently thought wrong. Bashir grew more suspicious and crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you one of them?"

Riker sighed. "If you mean Section 31, no, I'm not one of them. If you mean one of the innocent people manipulated into doing things their way, then yes, I'm one of them. Just like you. Have a seat, Doctor. I think we both could use some explaining."

Bashir didn't make any move to sit. "I don't want any explaining. I want to be put back on my shuttle. I want to be left alone."

Riker looked at the uniform on the floor again. He didn't need Bashir to explain everything. He could guess. "Do you really think they're ever going to leave you alone?" he asked, and he sincerely wanted an answer to that. Now that he'd been pulled into Section 31's machinations, he rather worried a bit that they'd never leave him alone again.

Bashir didn't answer, but his face flushed.

Riker took another guess. "You knew they'd come after you." Bashir didn't answer, but he did finally take the seat. Riker wished Troi was here. There was something very important going on with Bashir, he could tell, and he was beginning to fear what it might be. "You wanted them to come? Why? You hate them."

Bashir sighed and turned his chair to face the helm. "Because I'm tired." Then his face paled further as he took in the details of their heading. "D'Nexi? Why D'Nexi?"

Riker now wished Bashir had remained unconscious. If Bashir had given up his fight against Section 31 and if he would never join them, then it meant only one thing. He was waiting for them to kill him. A suicidal crew member only made this mission more dangerous than it had already become. Pfenner or no Pfenner, they had to turn this runabout around.

"Because that's where Section 31 wants us to go," Riker told him, trying to choose his words carefully. "I don't particularly want to go there, but they think that's where Pfenner is. They locked the helm. We can't change course and we can't call for help. We're going to D'Nexi. Unless we can find a way past their lockout. Do you think you could break their code?"

He didn't move and Riker held his breath. He needed Bashir. Bashir was genetically enhanced, probably with an intellect closer to Data than the rest of the crew combined. If anyone could break the code, it would be him. But he had to want to do it. Bashir's silence likely meant he was thinking it over, and Riker chose to hope that was a good sign.

Finally, Bashir spoke. "In thirty minutes?" There was absolutely no inflection in his voice. No sign of sarcasm or incredulity. If anything, it sounded like disinterest.

Riker blew out his breath and decided on a different track. "What about a transmission? We could call for help. They took out communications but they didn't touch our replicator."

Now, at least, there was emotion to his voice again as he repeated his earlier question. "In thirty minutes?!" He turned away from the helm to look Riker square in the eye. "Do you think I'm that much of a freak? It took weeks the one other time I'd done it."

Riker shook his head. He'd gone wrong with that one. He'd let his desparation push Bashir too far. "No, I don't think you're a freak at all. I got carried away. Look, if we can't stop this runabout, turn it around, or get help from someone else, we're going to reach the D'Nexi Lines and there's going to be a lot of fighting going on that we're not equipped to participate in."

"So we'll be shot down," Bashir said, and Riker did not like how he said it. There were more people on this runabout than just one suicidal man.

"You, me, and the four crewmen in the back."

Bashir's head turned quickly toward the back. With perfect timing, Simmons suddenly emerged from the rear compartment. He held the wall for support and dropped groggily into the chair at the tactical station. He did a double-take when he saw Bashir, but addressed Riker. "What's going on, sir?"

Riker sighed again. "We've had a change in plans. Not one I'm comfortable with and I'm still holding out hope--" he glanced hard at Bashir "--that we can get out of it altogether. Are the others awake?"

Simmons didn't need to answer because now the other three were coming forward. Garulos and Bormann were more alert than Simmons had been, but then they had been resting for hours before they'd been put under. Simmons had just gone aft. Formenos came last, and though she appeared alert as well, she held her left wrist tightly in her right hand. She'd fallen from one of the upper bunks and Riker guessed it was sprained. He hoped it wasn't broken.

"Where's Dayton?" Garulos asked. "And who's this?" Then he hastily added, "Sir."

"This is Doctor Julian Bashir of Deep Space Nine. Doctor, these are Lieutenants Simmons and Bormann, and Crewmen Garulos and Formenos," he said, indicating each as he introduced them. "Dayton is the reason for our change in plans. She wasn't one of us. She's changed course and locked the runabout down. We're heading for the D'Nexi Lines and unless someone has a great idea in the next thirty minutes, we'll reach them."

Simmons blew a low whistle at that news. "D'Nexi?"

"Was she a changeling?" Formenos asked.

"Not exactly," Riker answered. "It's complicated and right now we don't have time for an explanation. Let's just say she swapped places with Doctor Bashir here." He turned back to Bashir now. "Doctor, do you think you could help Crewman Formenos with that wrist?"

Bashir hadn't spoken throughout the entire exchange and now he only nodded. He rose slowly from his chair and retrieved a medkit from behind a wall panel. He stepped over the uniform to get to it and Bormann noticed. "Excuse me, sir," he said, addressing Bashir. "But why aren't you in uniform?"

Riker was surprised when Bashir answered. "Because I resigned this morning."

That pronouncement was followed by an awkward silence that Bashir seemed completely oblivious to. Garulos and Simmons swapped shrugs and Bormann picked up the uniform and carefully laid it on one of the unused consoles.

Deciding it was best to keep the attention off the doctor, Riker again brought up their predicament. "We need options, people. We've got twenty-five minutes before we reach those lines, but someone's probably going to notice us before that."

Bashir moved now to the back of the cabin, relinquishing, Riker realized, the helm to someone who was still in Starfleet, as Formenos thanked him and stretched her newly healed wrist.

"What about simple Morse Code?" Simmons suggested. "Can we at least get that out."

Riker shook his head. "I tried that while you were still sleeping."

Before anyone else could offer a suggestion, the tactical station lit up and the ship automatically shifted into alert status. Simmons spun back to the console and froze for just a second. He snapped back to attention and reported his findings. "Two Jem'Hadar attack vessels, sir. Closing fast. I think we just ran out of time."

"Red alert! Raise shields," Riker ordered and the runabout's crew rushed to their positions. Formenos took over helm station and tried to change course. Riker didn't stop her. There was no reason not to try. Riker turned next to Simmons. "Weapons status?"

Simmons shook his head. "None, sir."

"None?" Bashir asked from the back.

"We don't have any. No phasers, no torpedoes. Where'd they go, sir?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Riker replied, checking the short-range sensors. The Jem'Hadar were in range. But they weren't firing.

Bashir finally came forward. "Why aren't they firing?"

Just then the runabout's engines cut out completely, though Formenos lifted her hands and shook her head. Garulos answered for them all. "We've been set up."

Riker finally understood. For one brief moment, everything slowed down and allowed him to put the pieces together. The course that brought them to within sensor range of a Dominion fleet and then promptly shut down their engines to prevent their escape. The communications blackout to keep them from calling for help. The unconscious crew to eliminate any chance of a creative solution at the last minute. And now Jem'Hadar ships closing fast but not firing. They were going to be captured. They needed to be captured. Pfenner must have been captured, too. Section 31 had led Riker and the others to him, by leading the Dominion right to them.

Riker caught the uniform from the corner of his eye. _No,_ he thought, _they led Bashir. We were just the vessel to get him here. Bastards!_

Then the moment was over and time returned to its previously frantic pace. The communications console lit up and Bormann reported the hail. "They're demanding we surrender, sir."

Riker stood and picked up the uniform. "Tell them we accept, Lieutenant."


	2. Chapter Twelve

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Twelve**

Bashir felt his knees grow weak but he locked them so he wouldn't fall. This was not how things were supposed to go. Section 31 was supposed to take him, give him some mission that he would refuse and then decide he wasn't worth all the trouble. Sloan had insinuated they would have killed him before. If he could push them far enough, they'd do it now. They _had_ taken him. But they hadn't offered him a mission, and they hadn't given him any chance to refuse.

Then Riker ordered the surrender. Bashir knew, logically, there was no choice, but he still found himself shaking his head. The walls were spinning again. Several of the crew had gasped at the order. Bormann was visibly shaken. "Sir?"

"Do it," Riker ordered. Then he turned to Bashir and held out the uniform. "I really think you should put this on."

Bashir looked at the familiar material in Riker's hand. Part of him still wanted it. But the part of him that was tired of the fight and the pain won out. "I'm not in Starfleet anymore."

Riker shook his head in obvious exasperation. "As a Starfleet officer, you'll be a prisoner of war. If they see you as a civilian, they might just shoot you for sport."

Neither option offered any comfort or advantage. A familiar tightness gripped his chest. He had wanted to die, to disappear and leave this life and all the trouble with it, But as he looked out the forward viewscreen at the beetle-shaped vessel that held position there, he knew he didn't want them to end his life. Not them. "What makes you think they abide by any such rules?" he found himself asking Riker.

"They're preparing to board," Simmons called, his voice a little shaky. "Should I lower shields?"

"We don't have time for this," Riker huffed. He looked back over his shoulder to Simmons. "Stall them." Then he pulled his phaser and pointed it at Bashir's chest. "If you don't put it on now, I'll stun you and we'll put it on you. Either way, you're getting into this uniform. You can't just give up."

Bashir's faced flushed in anger. He wasn't afraid of the phaser, but he knew Riker would do what he said. "Why not?" he asked, keeping his voice low so that maybe only Riker would hear. He snatched the uniform and began to change, not because he wanted to, but because he didn't have a choice.

"Because we need you," Riker answered. "Our mission is to find Pfenner. Section 31 knew that. That's why they led us here, because the Dominion has Pfenner. You discovered their experiments, the K-Layer."

Bashir shook his head. He was tired of being treated like a science project when it was convenient. He was still human, if not as naturally so as the day he was born. "_We_ did!" he countered. "Garak, Dax, O'Brien and I. Why aren't they here?" But he knew the answer. "Because they aren't genetically-enhanced."

The phaser had lowered when he'd started to change. "I wouldn't have brought you at all," Riker admitted. "But that's probably why Section 31 put you here. We've got to stop the Dominion, Doctor. We need to stop Pfenner, if he's helping them. Out of those of us that are here, you're the right one for the job."

Bashir zipped the jacket and faced Riker straight on. "You should have brought Data. He's smarter than I am."

Riker tilted his head toward the ship behind him. "They'd take him apart."

"They'll take me apart!" he threw back. Riker's brows furrowed and Bashir grew impatient. Riker just didn't understand. He'd never been their prisoner before. But he'd seen, hadn't he? The bodies on Carello Neru should have been some kind of clue. "Don't you understand? I escaped!" He pointed to the phaser. "I'd be better off if you'd set that to something higher than stun." His anger began give way to the underlying fear as he remembered his time in Camp 371. No one had escaped from there--until he and the others had--but the imagination could suffice to tell him reprisals would not be pleasant. He eyed the phaser in Riker's hand and his mind instantly began running scenarios. He would grab the phaser, raise its settings and do what he should have done back on the station, what he hadn't been strong enough to do.

"Sir?" Simmons interrupted. "I don't think I can stall them any longer. We've got five seconds until they fire."

"Lower shields," Riker ordered. He laid his hand on Bashir's shoulder. "Then you can escape again. We'll find a way. Or maybe they mean to get you out again. Just don't give up."

Bashir didn't have time to ponder that, or even to move. His whole body began to tingle.

"I thought they were boarding us," Garulos commented just before the runabout faded from view.

* * *

It still shocked her a bit sometimes. The influx of memories that we not her own--and yet they were. She was with Benjamin discussing the Romulans.

_"Okay, let's say I'm the Romulan Proconsol," Jadzia said. "From where I'm sitting, the Dominion isn't a threat to me. I have a pact of nonagression with them. They're my allies."_

"You're not going to put your faith in some piece of paper are you?" Benjamin replied, playing along.

"Not at all," Jadzia returned. "I've been watching them very closely since the beginning of the war. And so far, they've kept their part of the bargain."

Benjamin's tone got stronger. He was passionate about this from the start. "They're violating your territory almost every day. What kind of ally is that?"

Jadzia felt herself flush, but she stayed calm, calculating . . . Romulan. "So they're crossing through my backyard to give the Federation a bloody nose. I can't say that makes me very sad."

"You can't be naive enough to think the Dominion will stop with the Federation?" he said, then he pointed down at her. "When they're finished with us, they'll be coming after you."

"That's speculation," she replied, still calm.

"The Founders," Benjamin went on, "see it as their sacred duty to bring order to the galaxy. Their order." He waved his hands to fit his words. "Do you think they'll sit idly by and let you keep your chaotic empire next to their perfect order? No. If you watch us go under, what you're really doing is writing your own death warrant."

"You're asking me to start a war based on theories."

"They're not theories," Benjamin countered. "They're facts!"

But the burden of proof was on him. "Prove it," she said.

And he did. Part of her realized that Jadzia Dax had suspected something all along, something she suppressed inside herself. She hadn't thought about how ironic it was that just weeks after her role-playing with the captain, the Romulan Senator was killed, the Dominion plot was found, and the Romulans joined the war. Ezri remembered the party after the announcement. Actually, she remembered two. One aboard the station and one on the _Destiny_. She was happy for the turning point in the war, the hope it gave her and everyone around her to know they had another ally, one who wasn't already taking a beating. Jadzia Dax hadn't wanted to think of the irony. She didn't want to know.

And Ezri Dax understood why. Her captain, her friend through three hosts, a man she admired and looked up to as the most stubborn, stalwart man of principle she'd ever met--besides Julian--had crossed the line. He had participated in the forging of evidence to make the Romulans think the Dominion was going to attack, and in doing so, he had become an accessory to the murder of a Romulan senator, his entourage, and the forger. Ezri knew who had accomplished those murders. Benjamin had practically admitted it that very first day. He knew 'someone who specialized in gaining access to places he wasn't welcome.' With Garak's help, Benjamin achieved his purpose. The Romulans took the bait and joined the war.

She wasn't sure if she was angry or disappointed or shocked. Or guilty. Wasn't it Jadzia that had said it was good sometimes to be the bad guy? Still, he must have known she wouldn't have approved. Otherwise he would have told her before this.

"What did this have to do with Julian?" O'Brien asked. His voice was steady, but forced, and he couldn't seem to lift his eyes from the table.

"You mean besides the fact that they told him?" Benjamin asked and then he took a deep breath. "To get a genuine Cardassian data rod, we had to barter something. Something that only Julian could release. He didn't know why. He protested it, warned me of the dangers."

"Bio-memetic gel!" Ezri said, finally seeing the pieces fall together. Section 31 had tried to frame Julian on the _Enterprise_ for illegally releasing eighty-five liters of bio-memetic gel. Sisko had cleared him, but he never did tell them the details. "It was the gel."

"Bio-memetic--" O'Brien stammered. "He nearly died keeping that Lethian from the stuff! And you ordered him to just release it to some unsavory person with a data rod?"

Sisko nodded. "Yes. I was bent on my objective, Chief. I needed to get the Romulans into the war, and I needed the rod to do that. I needed the gel to get the rod. I didn't think about Julian, and I tried not to think what would happen to the gel after it left the station. I was focussed on the objective. Nothing else mattered."

Kira hadn't said anything yet, Dax realized, and as she looked at her now she decided the Colonel was ill. While Benjamin had been friends with a Dax for most of his adult life, he was an icon to Kira. The Emissary. She knew him better than most other Bajorans and was able to take him as a man and a commander as well, but she never forgot that he was the Emissary. Then again, she'd also lived to see Vedek Winn become the Kai. She would get through this. They all had to, because Benjamin was right. If any of this got to the Romulans, the alliance would end. Or another war would start.

More guilt. If Sisko had a piece of what drove Julian into the shuttle, she had a piece, too. This was what he couldn't tell. He had begged her, pleaded with her, not to take the one thing he still had--the Infirmary--away from him. And she had, because she needed him to talk. But he knew he couldn't talk, because he couldn't endanger the rest of the quadrant with what he knew. He couldn't make her an accessory, as Benjamin had put it. They were all accessories now because they knew and they were going to cover it up. So she was guilty for Benjamin, for her part in his fall, for Julian, for pushing him over the edge, and for herself, for covering up a war crime against an ally.

"So what now?" she asked, hoping that someone would pull a miracle out of their pocket and give her an answer that could ease her conscience.

But the door had opened just as she spoke, and new faces appeared. "We do our duty, Lieutenant," Admiral Ross answered. "I'm sorry to learn that Doctor Bashir has left, but we have larger concerns than just one man." Martok and Parnal, the Romulan representative, stepped in behind him. Ezri was glad, now, for the three-hundred-year-old slug in her gut. Dax helped her to drain the guilt from her face, leaving only her concern for Julian. And when she looked around the table, she noted the others had done the same, without the benefit of a symbiont.

"He didn't just leave, Admiral," Kira corrected. She held her head up now, and her eyes filled with fire. O'Brien gave her an approving look. She was the only one with the luxury to speak up to Ross that way without being insubordinate. "He was abducted."

Ross sighed, then straightened his shoulders. "From this station?"

Kira hesitated, but it was clear Ross already knew the answer. "No," Kira finally admitted.

"Any reason to think his disappearance will have a detrimental effect on the war effort?" Ross looked to Sisko for that answer, but Dax did not like what he was implying.

"No!" Kira replied before the captain could speak, "not unless you mean that we will no longer have the benefit of his intelligence and insight."

"We wouldn't have discovered the Dominion's plot without him," Sisko added.

Ross nodded and sat down at the other end of the table. "I realize you want to drop everything and look for him." Martok and Parnal took their seats as well, but all attention was on Ross now. "And if the fate of the entire Alpha Quadrant wasn't at stake, I'd be glad to let you. But just because we solved the puzzle doesn't mean we've won the prize. We may know what they are working on, but we still have to stop them from succeeding at it. Julian Bashir may matter little if the Dominon perfects K-Layer Subspace Concealment."

Dax hated that Ross was right. She had been a commander once, too. Sometimes the success of a mission meant leaving someone behind.

"Two days ago," Ross went on, "Starfleet Intelligence had a possible sighting of Doctor Wilhelm Pfenner in the Faeros system. The runabout _Dnieper_ was sent from the _Enterprise_ to investigate while the _Enterprise_ was ordered to join the offensive at D'Nexi. Approximately six and a half hours ago, _Enterprise_ lost all contact with her runabout."

Ross touched the console in front of him, and an image appeared on the viewscreen behind him. "Pfenner may still be out there, and the disappearance of the _Dnieper_ is troublesome. These are the long range sensor readings from Faeros VII's remote sensor base."

Dax forced her attention to the screen, which showed a single small blip just inside the furthest range of the sensors. It moved slowly forward then turned sharply before disappearing.

Ross continued, "As you can see, the _Dnieper_ abruptly changed course then vanished altogether. Our runabouts are not equipped with cloaking devices. There were no other ships in the vicinity and there is no debris large enough to register on sensors."

The readings played again, and Dax watched closely, looking for any sign that the runabout had been destroyed. There was no flash, no erratic behavior, no decrease in speed. The blip was just no longer there.

"Pfenner may or may not be there," the admiral said, "but something is. Something happened to that runabout. And, since we know it was sent to investigate Pfenner, we have reason to suspect the Dominion may already have perfected K-Layer Subspace Concealment. We still need to find Pfenner and learn what happened out there. If they are able to hide in the K-Layer, the _Defiant_'s cloak may be the only way to conceal ourselves from them."

If the Dominion did have the K-Layer, the whole quadrant was in danger. They had just sacrificed their innocence for the sake of the Federation. Now they would have to sacrifice their friend.

"We'll be ready to go within the hour," the Benjamin said.

* * *

They had been beamed aboard the Jem'Hadar vessel one at a time. They weapons were confiscated by the twelve Jem'Hadar that surrounded them. Riker's first thought had been for his crew, but he could only see two others: Bashir and Formenos. He hoped the other three were on the other ship. He'd waited for one of the Jem'Hadar to speak, but they simply stood and glared. Hours passed and Riker realized this was the first time he'd ever gotten a really close look at the Dominion soldiers. The Founders had obviously designed them to intimidate, and Riker decided that they had succeeded. The shortest one was still taller than he was, and he was taller than either Bashir or Formenos. Their skin was mottled with scales that seemed more like pebbles, and rows of bone protruded from their skulls. But Riker found the eyes the most disturbing. Each carried a look of fierce hunger in its eyes, like a soulless predator, driven to kill but held back by some greater force.

Formenos shifted her footing again, only slightly, but as it was the only movement in this room, it stood out. Riker wanted to shift, too. His feet and knees ached from standing too long in one spot. He tried to keep his mind focussed somewhere else to keep from tensing up.

Suddenly, the two Jem'Hadar in front of Riker stepped back. A woman in a beige shift brushed forward. Her hair was short and of a nondescript color, but Riker recognized her immediately for what she was. Her face was smooth but unfinished, without proper contours.

One of the Jem'Hadar spoke, confirming Riker's guess. "Founder."

_So this is a changeling,_ Riker thought. Despite the face, the woman before him seemed solid enough. Her flesh looked like flesh, her eyes, though placed in those awkward sockets, looked like eyes. She had a haggard look about her.

"Which one is he?" she barked to someone behind her.

A Vorta, also a woman, pushed foward and Riker expected to be pointed out now. He had been spending the last three hours preparing himself for this. Name, rank, and serial number. A time-honored tradition among prisoners of war.

"The dark one, there in the back," the Vorta said and Riker found himself pulled out of the way by one of the Jem'Hadar that was still standing near him.

Bashir, who hadn't so much as twitched in all this time, closed his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again. He didn't meet the gaze of the shapeshifter or the Vorta. Riker tried to decide their reasoning for singling the doctor out. Section 31 had set up the runabout's capture. Had they also told the Dominion whom to expect? Or was it, as Bashir had implied, that they remembered him as one of the escapees?

"See that it doesn't happen again," the Founder said before turning and walking away.

"Yes, Founder," the Vorta replied. She handed a PADD to the soldier nearest her and then removed a slender device from a pocket in her dress. "Hold him," she ordered, and Bashir's eyes closed again.

He was grabbed on either side by a Jem'Hadar and pushed to his knees. A third pushed his head forward, exposing the back of his neck. The Vorta moved toward him and pressed one end of the device to the base of his skull. Riker heard a small "thump" followed quickly by a sharp intake of breath by the doctor. The Vorta removed the device and stepped back. The Jem'Hadar handed her PADD back and she checked it, nodding as if satisfied. "Release him." Then she, too, turned and walked away. The circle closed again and Bashir slowly stood again. Riker took a step to help him but was held back by a strong, heavy grip on his shoulder. Bashir glanced up once, and Riker saw defeat in his eyes. Then the doctor dropped his gaze to the floor and stood unmoving again.

Riker wondered what the Vorta had done to him, but he didn't have a lot of time to consider it. He felt a tingle at the top of his head and the bottom of his feet which travelled quickly inward, meeting at his stomach. His molecules dissipated and then reformed again, leaving him more dizzy than with Federation transporters.

Riker was suprised to find they were in a well-lit room with no Jem'Hadar. The walls were white, which seemed out of place in a Dominion facility, though Riker supposed this could have been a structure that the Dominion seized rather than built. There was one door on the left wall and no windows, but Riker thought it was too big to be a cell for just three prisoners.

Riker turned to ask Bashir how he was but he was interrupted by the whine of another transport. Bormann, Simmons, and Garulos appeared beside them, again without any accompanying Jem'Hadar guards.

"Is everyone alright?" Riker asked as soon as they had solidified.

They each nodded, except Bashir who was fingering the back of his neck. "What did they do?" Formenos asked him.

Bashir shook his head. "I don't know. Some kind of implant. Probably to keep track of me, judging by what that changeling said."

"Because you escaped before?" This time it was Simmons. "How'd you do that?"

"I don't think they'd allow the same circumstances a second time," Bashir replied, "so I don't think it matters."

Garulos nodded at that. "You saw a changeling? We didn't see anyone but our guards. About a dozen of them. No Vorta, no questions, no anything."

"Same here," Riker told him, "except that the good doctor here drew some attention." Riker put his hand on Bashir's shoulder. "I'm sorry about this. I know you didn't volunteer for this."

Bashir just nodded slightly. He was staring at the wall. Riker looked to see what had caught his attention. Hooks. There were three odd hooks on the wall, a little less than two meters off the ground. They were the only adornment on any of the walls.

"Should we try the door, sir?" Bormann asked.

* * *

Bashir had felt his stomach lurch when the transport deposited them in the room. The gravity was heavier here, wherever they were. He could feel it in his legs and arms, and the thing they put in the back of his head. He reached up to touch it and it reminded him of Sloan's monitoring device the first time they had met. It hummed slightly, which caused the hairs there to tingle.

The air smelled different, too, though he couldn't determine why. There was a draft in the room, but he could see no openings or windows. Nothing but the one door. They were on a planet though, of that he was certain.

The mostly bare white walls brought back unwanted memories, and, in a moment of panic, he couldn't help looking up to see if there were shower heads on the ceiling. There weren't and he breathed a little easier. Only a little. They had just been captured. There had to be something beyond this room, something unpleasant.

The transporter signal so near to them sent a shock through the implant and for a second he couldn't see Riker or Formenos. But when his sight returned the other three from the runabout had joined them. Riker asked about the implant and Bashir answered, but his attention moved away from the conversation, even though he answered the lieutenant's question. He felt Riker's hand on his shoulder and he nodded at whatever the commander said. But he was looking intently at the hooks on one of the walls. They were more in the shape of an upturned L than a true J-like hook, and the points were barbed. He thought he could detect a hint of red on the black metal, and in thinking that, he began to see a shadow of it on the wall behind each of the three hooks, as if something had been painted over.

"Should we try the door, sir?"

Before Riker could answer the door burst open. Bright light spread into the doorway from outside, obscurring the identities of those entering, but Bashir could tell they were Jem'Hadar from the height and build of the distorted silhouettes he could see. But there was someone with them, someone shorter. A Vorta perhaps.

Not a Vorta. The smaller person was thrown into the room and the door closed again. As soon as the glaring light was gone, Bashir could see it was a woman with thin arms and legs in a sack-like striped dress. He had a momentary flash of another woman in a striped dress delivering a tray of food to a table between two Gestapo agents. But her pointed ears didn't fit that memory. She looked up and he recognized her immediately.

"V'dara!" he cried out as he pushed past the runabout crew to her. Her hand was trembling and her grip was weak when he pulled her from the floor.

"You know her?" Riker asked, but Bashir ignored him. He hadn't seen V'dara since their escape from Internment Camp 371 and he very much regretted finding her here and so unwell. He kept her hand in his.

She stood before him and took in a sharp breath in surprise. In the month he'd known her in the camp, she'd always been stoic, almost Vulcan in her expressions. But now her eyebrows dipped in sadness and concern. She touched his face with her other hand. "The others?" she asked, with urgency and hope.

"They are free," he told her, knowing just who she meant: Garak, Worf and Martok. "And giving the Dominion hell."

That brought a little of her spirit back to her eyes. She smirked and dropped her hand. "Good." But her other hand remained in his. "You must remain strong," she told him, squeezing her grip. "This isn't like 371. My years there are a fond memory compared to this place. You must not let them break you!"

A hum began at the wall opposite the hooks and the seemingly solid wall there began to rise, flooding the floor with a glaring yellow light. The top of the wall slid under the ceiling, slowly revealing hundreds of legs, some in tall boots but most, further back, in stripes. Bashir released V'dara's hand and watched as a tall, thin Vorta ducked under the last edge of the wall, which continued its ascent until the whole of complex was visible beyond the glare. Rows upon rows of prisoners stood shoulder to shoulder, the men in striped trousers and the women in sack-like dresses like V'dara wore. The material glinted a bit, reflecting the sunlight, but the similarity was not lost on Bashir. For the merest of seconds, Bashir saw Nazi SS guards positioned around the myriad prisoners. He blinked and they were Jem'Hadar again.

"Ah, another wayward one returns to us," crooned the Vorta, and Bashir recognized the voice. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he saw the Vorta more clearly, standing with his hands behind his back.

"Deyos?" he whispered to V'dara and she nodded.

"Such a sweet reunion!" Deyos continued, smiling. "So nice of you to join us again, Doctor. I trust we won't have a repeat?" He raised his eyebrows and touched the back of his own neck softly, indicating the implant in Bashir.

Again, Bashir looked to V'dara. She nodded. "It's only a transponder," V'dara whispered quickly, touching the base of her skull to show that she had one, too. "Nothing more."

A familiar fear pushed itself to the forefront of Bashir's mind. Was V'dara a changeling? Would she say that to take him off his guard, hoping he'd talk--about what, he wasn't sure--so that the implant could transmit all he and the others said?

"However," Deyos went on, dropping the smarmy tone, "only one is needed to make an example." He motioned a hand forward and two Jem'Hadar entered the room. Each grabbed V'dara by an arm, and they pulled her toward the back wall and the waiting hooks.

Bashir felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach. The hooks. V'dara cried out, "Be strong!" as she was lifted off the floor and pressed onto one of the hooks. She screamed as the barb pierced her back and blood squirted onto the wall behind her. The Jem'Hadar released her and she fell a few inches, pulled onto the hook by the power of gravity. She kicked against the wall, instinctively trying to raise herself and lessen the pain. Blood ran down the wall in rivulets and pooled on the floor beneath her.

He was frozen. He couldn't move or breathe. His chest hurt and he wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn't open. His eyes wouldn't close; his head wouldn't turn away. V'dara died slowly, crying, and biting her lip in an effort not to scream. At the last moment, she held out her hand to him, but Bashir couldn't go to her. Her hand fell and she went limp.

"There will be no escape!" Deyos's voice caused him to flinch but he still couldn't turn away. The Vorta had yelled, so that the entire assemblage of prisoners could hear. "There are no such things as heroes! Here, only work and dedication to the Founders can set you free." His last words were quieter. "Process them."

* * *

One of the many prisoners watched with anxious trepidation as the roll call ended and the wall was raised. But instead of the usual lottery--as the prisoners had come to call it--he saw someone familiar standing with V'dara, along with five other new prisoners. Bashir. So now there were two--two of the Five.

It was not a happy thought. V'dara was singled out for punishment because she was one of the five who had escaped from a Dominion prison camp. She received only enough food to keep her alive and on her feet. She was routinely beaten without even a fabricated infraction of the rules. And the most dubious punishment was that she was not included in the hated lottery. In doing this Deyos had hoped to break the reverence the prisoners had for her, but this prisoner was proud to know that only a few had turned against her because of their jealousy. The greater majority held her in high esteem for her previous escape but also because Deyos did not want them to.

But this time was different. Deyos had kept V'dara as an example. Now there were two examples, and that didn't bode well for V'dara. Deyos could have a new example now, and he could be rid of the prisoners' hero.

But the new example troubled this prisoner as well. While many would think it a blessing to see a familiar face, he wouldn't wish this place on anyone, especially Bashir. Few knew the details, but Bashir had barely survived being trapped in the inspiration for this camp. Auschwitz. Striped uniforms, slave labor, starvation diets, excrutiating roll calls . . . and the lottery. Given, there were no gas chambers here, but there was death and suffering and fear. The Dominion had learned from that place, and the prisoner feared what effect that would have on the doctor.

His fears for V'dara came true in short order as she was "hooked" by the Jem'Hadar. Bashir stood frozen, presumably in horror, but the prisoners did something dangerous. They saluted. Deyos glared and shouted his usual "no escape" speech. He ordered the new prisoners to be processed and then waved off the roll call. It took the prisoners a few moments to realize what had just happened so that the guards had to prod them to return to their barracks. This prisoner, too, was shocked. He was saddened by the loss of V'dara and the capture of Bashir, but grateful for the cancellation of the lottery and amazed that there would be no punishment for their collective show of defiance. He turned with the others, already planning how he would sneak into Bashir's barracks--as soon as he figured out where they were.

* * *

If he were being completely honest with himself, Captain Sisko would have had to admit that he was grateful for the diversion offered by the _Enterprise_'s missing runabout. For an hour and a half, he had had no room to think of Bashir. The crew had performed even better than he had estimated, and the _Defiant_ had departed the station in just under fifty minutes. Status reports and strategy-planning filled another forty minutes after departure as the _Defiant_ streaked toward the runabout's last known location.

But now the course was laid, the ship was underway, and each crewmember was busy with his assigned duties--and Faeros was still an hour out. Sisko had little to do but watch the main viewscreen, and now the guilt over that relief he had felt was catching up to him. He had pushed Julian away just as Julian had said he would.

Only this time wasn't like before. He didn't want this assignment any more than Dax or Kira or O'Brien. He wanted to point the _Defiant_ in a different direction and find his missing doctor, but he didn't even know where to start. And he was still a captain in Starfleet, still fighting a war for the survival of the Alpha Quadrant. Orders were orders, and Julian was just one man.

Bashir had been abducted again, and it stung to think that the doctor had wanted it that way. Sisko tried to imagine what it would be like to live with the kind of uncertainty Bashir had lived with for the last couple of years. How many times had he been taken in his sleep by either the Dominion or Section 31? It was no wonder he had become unstable, not when one factored in the isolation of the cave and Sisko's own callous behavior. With O'Brien's revelation of Bashir's desire to die, Sisko finally understood when Bashir had said he had no faith left. He had lost his foundation. And Benjamin Sisko silently vowed that if he ever got the chance, he would help to rebuild it.

But at the moment, his ship was headed a different way and his own foundation was shaky. The others had done well to hide their feelings from the rest of the crew. There were no glares and the horrified shock had left their faces. But they were crisp and formal when delivering their reports, just like Bashir had been. Dax hurt the worst. He had known her for so long, shared so many memories. Curzon had been his mentor, Jadzia his closest friend. Ezri was new to him, but still Dax, and to see her face, with no smile, no twinkle in her eye. . . . Dax had never been so formal with him. She didn't tease him or make any jokes. That could be explained by the sadness of losing Bashir. There was nothing to suggest that she knew of Sisko's crimes in her demeanor. But there was nothing of his friend either.

"We are picking up the runabout's trace," O'Brien called from his station. "Heading toward Faeros, just as they should."

"Keep on it, Lieutenant," Sisko ordered the helm. "Engage cloak."

* * *

Commander Will Riker leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. For the last ninety minutes, all thought of Pfenner and the mission had been driven from his head. Now, though, he tried to turn his attention to the mission as a way of focussing on something besides the fear and worry.

The fear for himself and his crew. There had been no interrogation, but he was sure they would all be questioned sometime soon. And since he was the commanding officer, the brunt of the interrogation would likely fall on him. He would accept that gladly if it spared his crew, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared.

He wanted to ask Bashir what to expect, but Bashir was why he worried. While the doctor hadn't been in a healthy state of mind before, he was nearly catatonic now. He hadn't said a word since the Romulan woman was killed in front of him. He had a haunted look in his eyes, which were wide and staring in horrified recognition.

Riker could guess from the Vorta's words and Bashir's actions that the woman was Subcommander V'dara, one of the five escapees who warned the Federation of the impending Dominion invasion. Worf, General Martok, and the Cardassian, Garak, were the other three. Riker and the others were horrified by her execution, but it was worse for Bashir. The Jem'Hadar had had to drag him away to be "processed." He decided to give the doctor a little time before he brought her up. Right now, he wanted a better look at their surroundings.

He stood, putting his left arm down to steady himself. He regretted it. The tattoo the Jem'Hadar had none-too-gently put there ached with the movement. He looked at it, turning it into one of the shafts of light that slipped in between the slats of their barracks. The markings were foreign to him, but he recognized their origin. Dominion, most likely numbers. Only Bashir had been spared the tattoo. He already had one. And it was now another way for him to stand out as he was numbered in Standard. _No wonder the man is paranoid,_ Riker thought.

He stepped closer to a fairly large crack and pressed his face to it. He had to squint against the bright light but he could see other square, wooden buildings arranged in neat rows. He counted eight rows before he lost sight to the glare of the sun. He turned his gaze a bit toward the direction they'd come. He could see the building they were transported into, with the Romulan's body still hanging limply on the hook. Really, it was just a blur in the distance, but he recognized the shape, the height of the body off the floor.

They were taken from that building to the one just on the right of it. There they were forced to undress. The men, without even discussing it, pushed Formenos to the rear of the group, so that none of their eyes would be on her as she removed her uniform. They couldn't keep the Jem'Hadar from watching, but Riker was glad they could offer her at least that bit of dignity. She stayed to the back of the line as they were led out of that building. Riker had kept Bashir in the middle of the group, hoping that he'd draw less attention there. But then, their next destination had been the tattooing. Formenos was made to move forward, to take the needle first. Riker tried to look away, but the Jem'Hadar nearest him, forcibly turned his head back. So he did the best he could and kept his eyes firmly on her face. After the tattoo, they shaved her and took her away. Riker was next, but they didn't shave him and when he was taken to the next building, Formenos wasn't there. The others of his crew joined him one by one, with Bashir and Simmons arriving at the same time. Bashir did not hold his aching arm as the others did and Riker could now clearly see the numbers he wore.

Once all the runabout's males were together, they were given striped uniforms with no regard to size. The pants Riker got were long enough, but quite snug at the waste. The hem of Bormann's pants hit him midway down his shin, and Simmons's were so loose he had to hold them to keep them from falling off. Bashir, strangely, got a uniform that fit him fairly well, though, of course, he didn't seem to notice. All of the shirts had stitches in the back where a hole had been mended. Riker didn't want to think about what had made the holes. They were each given a badge with markings that matched their tattoos. Each except Bashir, that is. He was left without.

Three buildings in succession from the undressing to the dressing. Riker counted the buildings he could see from the crack. He thought he could make out four more between the last of the three and the building they were in now. He turned again, taking in as much of the camp as he could from that small vantage point. The buildings all looked the same. There was no way to tell if one of them housed Dr. Pfenner or a project of the likes of K-Layer Subspace Concealment. The buildings all looked much too small and primitive.

As he surveyed his surroundings, the bright outdoor light had begun to dim. A breeze kicked up dust from the ground and blew it in through the cracks. Someone coughed behind him and he turned to the group.

It was just the five of them, Formenos having been separated. The three other _Enterprise_ crewmembers sat together on the dirt floor, a fair distance away from Bashir, who sat huddled in the corner. They didn't know him, of course, and he was acting strange. Riker could understand their distance, but he didn't like it. It wouldn't help Bashir and it would only serve their captors if they didn't present a united front. Still, he would not bother with it tonight. Enough had happened today.

He sat down between his crew and the doctor, bridging the gap with his own body. The others were quiet, and they watched him carefully. Riker just shrugged. "Might as well try and get comfortable," he told them. "We might have a busy day tomorrow. Keep your eyes open. We may still find what we were looking for."

"What happens if we do?" Simmons asked, though Riker could see that they all wanted the answer.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he told them. They still watched him and he felt uneasy with their gazes. He couldn't give them anything more yet. "Dismissed."

They shuffled away a bit, finding places on the floor as there was no furniture at all in the room. Riker turned his attention to Bashir and almost wished Troi was there. Almost. He wouldn't wish her to this place for anyone. "Who was she?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Barracks six," Bashir replied after a moment and without turning his head at all. "We escaped."

Riker nodded. "I thought so. I'm sorry she's gone. Was it like this?" he asked. "The other camp?"

* * *

"Was it like this?" Riker asked. "The other camp?"

Bashir was staring forward at the wall across from him and as the light faded even more, the shadows began to move in his vision. Three-tiered bunks wavered in and out of his sight. "Which camp?"

"The Dominion camp," Riker replied, a worried tone in his voice. "The one you escaped from. Was it like this?"

Voices twittered in the breeze and Bashir found it hard to hear Riker's words, but he made them out. "371? No, not like this." A rat scurried across the floor beside his bare foot. He drew it back quickly and held his legs close to his chest.

"More like the other one?" Riker's voice was nearly lost. The other voices were louder now. Some in German, some Polish. He thought he might have heard Yiddish, but he wasn't sure. He flinched when the _Blockälteste_ called for lights out.

* * *

Riker took that flinch as a 'yes.' Something was going on in Bashir's head, and he could only guess what it was. Auschwitz. Why had they chosen Auschwitz? he wondered. They couldn't have known Bashir would come here, at least not until a couple of days ago. But none of what had seen so far looked new. The dust on the floor, the cracks in the walls, the worn faces of the prisoners. This camp had been here awhile, but as far as he knew, Bashir was the only person still living who had first-hand memories of Auschwitz. Why do it if it wasn't done especially for him?

Suddenly there was a sound of wood creaking, in the far corner. But the shadows there were too dark to see anything. Riker stiffened and the other men crowded closer.

"Of all the people they had to go and catch," a new voice sounded from the corner. "I certainly didn't want to see him here."

"Who are you?" Riker demanded, standing, blocking Bashir with his legs. He knew the voice was talking about the doctor.

"My name's Jordan," the voice replied, from higher up. The wood creaked again. "Lt. Joseph Jordan--the second. I used to be stationed with Doctor Bashir on DS Nine and the _Defiant_." He stepped forward and a stay beam of thin light lit his face for a moment. He was young, but haggard, with dark hair and sunken cheeks. A prisoner, like them, but one who had been there for much longer. Like them, he wore no shoes.

Riker glanced back at Bashir, who hadn't moved at all. He was still staring at the wall, only his eyes were perhaps wider now and his face even paler. "Doctor, do you know this man?" Riker asked him. Bashir didn't even look up. Riker stepped in front of him and crouched down. Bashir looked right through him. Riker grabbed his shoulders. "Doctor! Look at me. There's someone here. I need to know if you know him. Look at him and think."

Bashir blinked rapidly a few times and then turned his head slowly. "Jordan?" he whispered. "It was you."

"No, sir. It was a clone," Jordan said, coming closer and crouching down himself. Simmons and Bormann stepped between them though, and Riker was glad to see that bit of solidarity when Bashir wasn't technically a part of their team.

"They cloned me," Jordan went on. "I don't know what they were going to do with the clone, but I'm guessing it wasn't something very nice. What did he do?"

* * *

Riker studied the man's face and found himself believing him. Jordan looked sincerely sorrowful, with his eybrows hitched up over the bridge of his nose but pulled down on the sides, and yet resigned. Bashir flinched again but Riker wondered if he had lost his concentration again, but the doctor answered. "He tried to take my mind. He did, but we got it back."

Jordan's brows furrowed. "Why you?" he asked, shaking his head.

"A test," Bashir answered, shrugging off Riker's hold. He turned to face Jordan and Simmons backed up out of the way. "Where are we?"

"I don't know," Jordan admitted. "They didn't give me a tour when I arrived. This isn't my first camp though, I'm a transferree. Lucky me, huh? I was in a place like this for one day and it's just too familiar. Don't let it get to you, Doc. This isn't Auschwitz and they're not Nazis. Keep your head."

Riker might have been insulted if those words had been spoken to him, but Bashir just nodded slightly, still with that haunted look on his face. "It looks so. . . ." They must have been close, Riker guessed, friends.

"It looks," Jordan told him, "but it isn't. You gotta remember that."

"Why?" Riker asked, blurting out the question that had bothered him since before Jordan showed up. "Why'd they do this. How'd they know he'd show up?"

Jordan shrugged. "I don't think they did." He looked over at Riker. "I do know that his previous time in a Dominion camp wasn't anything like this. Mine wasn't either. It's like they looked back in our history and decided they could learn a few things. And what is the most terrifying prison camp we've ever had in our history?"

Riker nodded. "Auschwitz."

Jordan shifted his legs until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. "If you think like them, it's perfect. Gets the prisoners in a psychological state, not just a physical prison, you know. Still, there are differences." He turned his attention back to Bashir and repeated, "There _are_ differences." Then he was addressing them all again. "There's not much to the work kommandos, just barrack-building, maintenance, and food detail. Some are sent to work at the plant."

Riker cut him off. "What plant?"

Jordan shrugged again. "Big metalic structure on a hill aways south. At least I think it's south. To the right of the sunrise, anyway."

Riker was already thinking of Pfenner. Maybe he could get on the team--kommando--that went to the plant. "What do they do there?"

"Don't know," Jordan said, shaking his head. "They cut out those prisoners' tongues so they can't tell anyone. They don't have to participate in the lottery though. Hard to say which is better."

"Lottery?" Garulos asked from behind the others.

"Not what it sounds like," Jordan replied, sighing. "That's another difference. There are no gassings here, no mass shootings. Just the lottery. Once per roll call. Fifteen are chosen at random and hung on those hooks like V'dara. Three at a time. The others have to wait and watch, knowing their turn is coming. We got a break from it today, because of your arrival. Or rather, because of his." He inclined his head to Bashir. "V'dara was the only one."

Simmons dropped to the ground and let his head fall forward onto his knees. Riker put a hand on his shoulders, offering what little support he could. He shuddered himself, thinking what being impaled on that hook had felt like. "We had another in our crew. A woman. Where'd she go?"

"They keep the women separate," Jordan replied. "That's no different. They don't do anything to them though, not like what you might think. Jem'Hadar don't have any such longings. They treat the women same as the men, no better, no worse. There's one to watch out for. The Third. He's occasionally rougher than most. He wears a knife on his left boot. Got it off a Klingon. My turn for some questions?"

Riker hesitated. The man could be just who he said he was, a prisoner like them, and a veteran by the looks of him. Or he could be a plant, a changeling, or a clone, as he'd already mentioned before.

"He said you were dead." Bashir surprised them with that. He had seemed to have lost the conversation, but he was apparently still congizant of at least some of what was going on around him. "The clone. He said he'd killed you."

Now Jordan flinched, but he shook it off like a chill had passed through him. "I'm not suprised. Ties up loose ends that way, doesn't it. No one need bother looking for me." He took a shaky breath and rubbed his neck. "I know it was silly, but I wondered why no one did. I mean, I know they couldn't really find me. We couldn't find you when you were taken. Heck, we didn't even know you'd been taken until you escaped. So why would anyone come looking for me if there was a clone running around with my face?" He chuckled at that, but it wasn't a sign of amusement. Riker frowned in sympathy. "Still, I wanted to hope, you know?"

Bashir nodded and then turned back to the wall.

"What did you want to know?" Riker asked him. He'd listen to the question first, before he decided to trust the man with the answers.

"Are we winning out there?" Jordan asked. "I mean, I take it we got some help if V'dara was here. The Romulans are on our side. The Klingons, too, right? So how are we doing?"

Riker decided that was fair enough. If he was a plant, he wasn't asking for anything specific, like troop movements or supply dumps. "We took it hard at first," he answered. "They took Betazed, lots of other systems. But we had the Klingons. And then the Romulans found out they were the next target--" He paused when Bashir flinched again, but when the doctor didn't say anything he went on "--and joined us. Of course, they went and signed on the Breen, but we're pushing them back now."

Jordan sighed and nodded, smiling just a little. "Well, it's something. Maybe we've got reason to hope, huh?" He didn't wait for an answer, but stood and straightened. "I need to be getting back. I'll see if we can't get you all into my barracks. No guarantees though. They'll assign you to a kommando tomorrow. Try not to draw attention to yourselves. That's the same, too, huh, Doc? The best thing is to not be noticed." He motioned Riker to follow him as he retreated back to the corner.

Riker followed, holding his hand out to tell the others to stay. Jordan stopped in the shadows of the dark corner where the creaking sounds had come from. "They're going to single him out. Bashir is one of the Five. The Five escaped and that hurt the Dominion's ego. Deyos's especially, as he was in charge of their internment camp. He doesn't like that he's been dumped here. He took it out on V'dara, but now she's gone. He only needs one example, like he said. He doesn't look too good already. Damn it!"

Riker wasn't sure why he was so shook up over the doctor, but Jordan didn't wait for him to ask. "I went down there," he whispered, "into that hell. I dressed as a prisoner while the others went as SS. I crawled through barracks after barracks and one day, I even got caught and had to go on the kommando, but I found him that night. After weeks in that place, he was alive and I found him." He stopped there and brushed his hands through his hair. "Now he's here. I might have been to be happy to see a familiar face, but not his. We sacrificed a lot so he could live. _I_ sacrificed. He shouldn't be here."

Riker didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. He watched Jordan leave, as well as he could with what little light there was now, and then returned to the others. "Morning is sure to come quick," he told them, not bothering to share Jordan's last comments about Bashir. "We'd best get some sleep." He watched the doctor while he said that, but Bashir didn't seem to pay any attention. He was staring at the wall again, and it didn't look like he'd be sleeping soon. Riker remembered that he hadn't slept at all in the _Enterprise_'s brig. That, alone, should maybe have tipped Troi off.

Doctor Bashir pressed himself into the corner, ignoring the staring eyes of all the other men in the barracks. He didn't care about them, couldn't care about them. He was on the floor. He had to worry about himself. There were rats on the floor. Or there would be. And he had no shoes. He used to have wooden shoes. They were uncomfortable but they were good for beating the rats away, when he wasn't too tired to lift them. But one of those rats could be her. She could be one of the men. She could be the wall. Nothing was safe and there was no one to trust. There was no way out this time. No gas chambers, Jordan had said so. There was no way to transport him without the count being off. And if the count were off, the others would die.

Riker lay down on the floor beside him, and Bashir wondered why he didn't take one of the bunks. He was a Commander. He had rank.

"Try and sleep," Riker told him. "Consider it an order."

Bashir nodded and Riker closed his eyes. But Bashir couldn't. He wasn't tired. And he had to keep his eyes open. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see the danger before it hit.


	3. Chapter Thirteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Thirteen**

The runabout had not disappeared at all. All the evidence pointed to a much simpler solution, and yet one still unexplainable: It had cloaked. No K-Layer Subspace Concealment, no phase shifting, nothing out of the ordinary. Just cloaked. Only Starfleet runabouts were not equipped with cloaking devices. That opened a new page to the mystery. And Kira found she preferred focusing on the mystery of the runabout to dwelling on Captain Sisko's confession. She wasn't quite sure what to do with that. She could tell herself that she might have done the same thing, especially during the Occupation. She could also say that the Romulans deserved it. They had been letting the Dominion use their space to attack Federation and Klingon ships. She could even say that Sisko was probably right. If the Romulans hadn't joined the war, the Dominion would very likely have turned on them in time.

And maybe that was why she didn't harbor any more animosity for Garak than she had before Sisko's revelation. It wasn't hard to figure out how Sisko had come by his plan and the pieces required to carry it out. He hadn't mentioned the Cardassian tailor/spy, but Garak had long ago ceased to fool anyone as to his true calling. He was devious, dangerous, and deliberate. But he was also slowly developing a conscience more closely resembling Bajoran or Federation ethics. And sometimes that _did_ fool people. He was still a Cardassian, born and raised. The cost paid for the success of Sisko's plan was probably quite small in his eyes. Cardassian ethics wouldn't bat an eye at sacrificing an individual for the good of the state. So, really, he hadn't done anything that would surprise Kira.

But Sisko. . . . Sisko was her captain, her commanding officer for more than six years. He was a man who had earned her trust and respect. He had earned her admiration. He was fair and caring when necessary and tactically brilliant when that was required. He could look beyond his own beliefs and upbringing to accept the Bajorans' differences, and even to embrace them. He was a man of principles. And he abided by those principles. Or at least he had.

Beyond all that, he was the Emissary, chosen by the Prophets. She had accepted that on faith, and on Kai Opaka's declaration, and had trusted the Prophets' judgment. Benjamin Sisko had found the Celestial Temple and met the Prophets. He had discovered B'Hala. He had warned Bajor against joining the Federation before the war began, and thus saved Bajor from instant anihilation by the Dominion. He was revered by her people, and by Kira herself.

But how then could he have done what he did? It was no wonder to her now that Julian had been so uneasy around the captain.

_Enough!_ she shouted to herself. If she wasn't careful, her distress would show. Questions would be asked; the truth might get out. And then the Federation would face a war against four races with only the Klingons at their side. Julian had kept silent, as best he could. She would have to as well.

"Why would they turn toward D'Nexi?" Ezri asked, and the question helped Kira to return her thoughts to the missing runabout. The single warp trail they had been following turned abruptly in the direction of the D'Nexi system and the battle about to rage there. "The _Enterprise_ is already going there. Why leave the _Enterprise_ only to turn back without a word?"

"They didn't turn back exactly," O'Brien offered. "They set a course that would bring them to the D'Nexi system, not to the _Enterprise._ But what good could a runabout do in that kind of engagement? There was hardly enough firepower aboard to tickle a Cardassian Galor-Class warship."

"I think it's all simpler than that," the captain said, startling them all. He hadn't joined in the conversation up to this point, and Kira had figured he was stewing in his own guilt. He was still sitting in the command chair, with his elbows propped up and fingers steepled together in front of his face. He wasn't stewing, she realized. He was thinking. "Runabouts don't have cloaks."

They already knew that. Romulan and Klingon vessels had cloaks, but in Starfleet, only Defiant-class vessels were equipped with them.

Dax nodded. "Klingons and Romulans do. But neither of them have any reason to take our runabout."

"There's someone else," the captain said, dropping his hands and sitting up straight. "Someone who can transport a Starfleet officer off his station while the shields are up."

At that moment, Kira forgot to breathe. Julian was the Starfleet officer in Sisko's statement. Section 31 had taken him.

"So they might also be able to cloak a runabout," Dax finished for them all.

O'Brien slapped his hand on the console in front of him. "And just how do they think they're helping the war effort by keeping that kind of technology to themselves anyway?"

Kira took a breath again at that. "What do they want with our runabout? Why D'Nexi?"

Worf finally spoke. "Pfenner. They do not want D'Nexi. The runabout was going to Faeros. They must know Pfenner is not in the Faeros system."

"He's at D'Nexi," Sisko said, nodding. "Do you think it's a coincidence that they also took Bashir today?"

Ezri took in a quick breath. "Julian cracked the layers. I mean, we all did, or Garak did, but anyway, it was Julian who put the pieces together."

Kira looked at the captain and felt something akin to hope stir in her disgruntled stomach. "If we find Pfenner," he said, "we find Julian."

* * *

The light came as quickly as it had left the night before. Sunrise and sunset were shortlived on this moon or planet wherever they were. Riker blinked and began the process of sitting up. His joints were stiff from sleeping on the hard ground, but he stretched and the kinks began to work themselves out. The others started to stir as well, stifling yawns. Once they remembered where they were, they lost the sleepy look. Today was their first full day as prisoners of the Dominion. Just in time to punctuate that thought, Riker heard shouts and sirens begin to blare.

He looked to Bashir and found him sitting in the same position as he'd left him, hunched into the corner. But he began to move with the sirens. Riker was surprised then, when the doctor was standing before any of the rest of them. Riker stood to meet him. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

"I wasn't sleepy," Bashir replied.

Riker regarded him for few more moments. He looked tired. Very tired, as if he hadn't been sleeping for quite awhile. His skin was taut and the area under his eyes was dark. His eyes, themselves, seemed almost lifeless. But he replied quickly, unlike last night, when he'd appeared to be in a daze. Flashbacks, Riker decided. He was probably having flashbacks. But, despite the physical signs of exhaustion, Bashir appeared to be alert and coherent.

The door, nearly concealed from all view when closed, began to ascend to the ceiling and a Jem'Hadar ducked under it to get inside. "Out!" he ordered, brandishing his weapon.

Riker nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, but his men caught it and began to move toward the door. Bashir stepped forward, too, and Riker let him pass. The Jem'Hadar followed him back out the door. Riker squinted against the brightness of morning in this place. He could hardly make out the next building in the glare. He could, however, make out the silhouette of the Vorta, Deyos, the camp's commander. There were also four other Jem'Hadar. One of them wore a Klingon knife in a sheath on his boot.

"I hope you had a good night's sleep," Deyos offered, his voice dripping in insincerity. "I'm sure you're all very eager to find out your new assignments. You will report to the following kommandos and there you will learn your tasks. Mr. Simmons, you will be working in the plant."

Riker stiffened at that, as did Simmons. They'd heard what Jordan had said about the plant. One of the Jem'Hadar stepped forward and shoved his weapon into Simmons's back. "Move!" To his credit, Simmons made no reply or complaint. He looked back at Riker once and then began to walk in the direction the Jem'Hadar was prodding him.

Deyos was unperturbed. "Bormann, maintenance." Another Jem'Hadar stepped foward, but Bormann had already gotten the hint. He started moving before the Jem'Hadar could butt him with his weapon.

"Garulos," Deyos went on, "construction."

Garulos, too, moved of his own accord. And with that, Riker's original crew was stripped from him. He hoped he'd see them again by nightfall. He hoped Simmons could still talk by then.

Deyos turned to Bashir next, and Riker held his breath. "You, my dear doctor, may tend the wounded."

Bashir nearly fell over. "What?" he blurted. Riker was just as surprised. He'd expected Bashir to get hauled away and beaten or thrown into solitary confinement.

"And tend the dead," Deyos added. "You can start with that Romulan filth we hung yesterday. Burn the body, destroy the ash."

No more words came from Bashir, and Riker remembered a word from his history classes when they'd dealt with the Holocaust: Sonderkommando. Riker watched the Jem'Hadar with the knife lead the doctor away and wondered if he'd see any of his team again.

There was only one Jem'Hadar left and he now took Riker's arm. "Commander Riker," Deyos finally addressed him, "you and I have some things to discuss." He turned his back and began walking. The Jem'Hadar made sure that Riker followed.

* * *

Captain Sisko braced himself as he dematerialized and rematerialized on the runabout. Because the trace was weak, they'd had to follow it slowly. Nearly eight hours after finding the trace, they had found the vessel itself. Two other warp signatures were found within transport distance of the runabout, and no life signs were present on the _Dnieper_. A quick scan had revealed all life support functions were functioning perfectly, so Sisko had decided he wanted a look for himself. He took Dax and O'Brien with him and left Worf in command of the _Defiant_.

"She checks out, sir," O'Brien reported. "Not a thing is wrong with her."

"And I don't detect a cloaking device anywhere," Dax added. "It feels like a ghost ship, though."

Sisko nodded. It did feel like one. A perfect ship without a crew. He caught Dax's eye. "Check the logs." Then he made his way to the rear compartment with his own tricorder out. Even though he suspected Section 31 was behind the runabout's initial disappearance, he didn't think it was like them to abduct an entire crew and leave the ship behind. But why else would Riker and his crew abandon the ship, if there were no equipment malfunctions. Two warp signatures outside the runabout pointed to a potential threat, but the _Defiant_'s sensors had shown no indication of recent phaser blasts to the hull. If the two other ships were Jem'Hadar, how had they found the cloaked runabout? And why would the cloak come down here in front of them? Why would the crew give up without a fight?

O'Brien had also come to the rear. Sisko walked to one wall and began opening each locker and drawer. Surely an away team would have packed supplies. O'Brien took the other side and began the same process. Sisko was just about to reach the bunks when Dax came in behind them.

"There are no logs," she reported, "which, I'm aware, doesn't make much sense."

"They staged this," O'Brien stated as he slammed a locker closed. "They cloaked this runabout and then, when it was all over, they took the cloak and cleaned up the scene. There's not a stitch of evidence that shows anybody was ever on this runabout to begin with."

Sisko had a locker open and he left it that way when he turned to them. "They left more than a stitch, Chief."

They walked over to stand behind him and Dax gasped. Three pieces of clothing lay carefully folded in the bottom of the locker. O'Brien picked up the top piece and unfolded it to reveal the jacket Julian had been wearing as he boarded the shuttle that morning.

Sisko picked up the rest: a shirt and a pair of pants. "Things just got a bit more interesting."

* * *

Crewman Formenos did not comment when she was assigned to the plant. She wondered, of course, what the plant was and what was done there, but she had hope that she might see someone from her crew now that she was out of the barracks. She had not seen any of them since she was separated out. She had not seen anyone. The barracks she had slept in were empty.

She was taken south, past many rows of barracks, but, still, she saw no one except her escorts. Three Jem'Hadar walked beside and behind her. The bright sun reflected off the ground nearly blinded her and the heat was intense. Still, she said nothing, preferring not to show any weakness to the Jem'Hadar. After perhaps half an hour they reached the bottom of a high hill. Only as they ascended above the heights of the barracks did Formenos get her first glimpse of other prisoners. Far off to the west she saw what could have been a construction crew. To the east, striped uniforms moved through the barracks like ants in a farm. She was pushed from behind when she looked too long. She forced her eyes forward again.

The top of the hill housed a long, white complex of buildings. Formenos was herded toward the closest one of them. She was pushed again as she stepped through the door. Her eyes were not able to keep up with the sudden change from the bright of outdoors to the interior darkness. She had stopped because she couldn't see. But, with the Jem'Hadar's encouragement, she moved on, trying not to hesitate in her steps. After a few seconds, her eyes began to adjust and she could see she was in a room with about 40 other people. The Jem'Hadar placed her in line and then left, closing the door behind them.

Formenos squinted at the crowd, trying to see if she recognized any of the faces. Someone clapped twice and the people began to move, lining up on two sides of the room. All except one, but he was pulled into line by the others. Simmons. He saw her, too, but when his gaze met hers, she became confused. The front of his shirt and chin were red with blood, but he didn't appear to be bleeding anymore. He held a shaky hand up to his mouth and his eyes told her of sorrow and fear.

Four people stepped into the room. Two were Jem'Hadar, one was a Vorta, and the other was human. The human, wearing a long white coat and neatly pressed trousers, stopped at the far end of the line and waited, flanked by the two Jem'Hadar. Formenos recognized him, too. Pfenner.

The Vorta moved down the other row. Each prisoner in turn opened his or her mouth. He reached Simmons and his neighbor had to open Simmon's mouth for him as Simmons seemed to be in too much shock to move for himself. The inspector nodded and passed to the next in line. He reached the end of the line quickly and was soon in front of Formenos. Following along, she opened her mouth. The inspector stopped and checked a chart in his hand. "Ah, the other new one," he said, smiling softly.

Formenos shut her mouth and looked to Simmons. He was shaking his head. She didn't dare speak, so she tried to send the question with her eyes. _What?_ Simmons opened his mouth again and made a scissors sign with his fingers. Formenos felt queazy. The blood. They had cut out his tongue.

"It needs to be processed," the Vorta called. Formenos was too scared to worry over the insult of being called an 'it.' She wondered if they would even anesthetize her first. Simmons looked to be in shock, not pain. Maybe it wouldn't hurt.

The Jem'Hadar moved from around Pfenner, but he rushed to keep up with them. He pushed one of them out of the way until he was standing beside the Vorta. "Eline Formenos?" he asked.

Formenos wondered how he knew her name. She nodded.

"Do you know who this is?" Pfenner asked the Vorta, who rolled his eyes in a completely disinterested manner. "Doctor Eline Formenos is one of the most renowned Subspace Theorists in the Federation."

Formenos found the whole thing rather surreal. Her tongue was about to be cut out, she had been called an 'it' by a Vorta, and now their target had her confused with some scientist who had the same name. She got the feeling, though, that she didn't want to contradict him. Maybe being a scientist would mean she would get to keep her tongue.

"What it is matters little," the Vorta said.

"Don't you see?" Pfenner argued. "She could be essential to discovering the layer! Her work on subspace eddies has become the standard."

Layers? Formenos remembered the mission and the reason Riker had surrendered. They still needed to stop the K-Layer experiments. She decided being a scientist was perhaps worth losing her tongue. What was a tongue when compared to losing the war? "Layer?" she asked, trying to sound interested. "Eddies have been proven countless times. Are you suggesting there are layers within subspace?" She paused for a moment, as if thinking. "I suppose it's possible."

Pfenner sighed and then he smiled. "It's more than possible. The layers exist. We've proven it. But we haven't perfected the manner in which we can reach a specific layer. Your help would be invaluable."

The Vorta seemed to be ignoring this whole exchange. He checked his chart again, but then widened his eyes at what he found. "Her qualifications _are_ impressive," he muttered.

She noticed the pronoun. But she couldn't just give in so quickly. She was a Federation scientist now, not a traitor. But too much resistance wouldn't get her where she needed to be: in Pfenner's lab. "Who is 'we?'" she asked.

Pfenner looked as if he were going to speak, but the Vorta beat him to it. "The Dominion, of course."

"I am a prisoner of war," Formenos said, "not a traitor to my people. I cannot help you."

"You will do as you are told," the Vorta stated. He tilted his head and the Jem'Hadar on his left stepped up. He grabbed her head and forced her jaw open.

"Wait!" Pfenner called. "We need her mind, not her hands. I can't work with her effectively if she's forced to pass notes. We need to confer and, to confer, we need to talk. She will help us when she realizes what we are doing." He looked at her again, pleaded with her with his eyes. "No scientist can resist this kind of breakthrough. And she'll want an end to the war as much as I do. You've spared my tongue. Spare hers. We need her."

The Vorta studied her hard for a moment. Then he waved one hand, dismissing the Jem'Hadar. "You have one day. If she will not help us willingly, she'll work as the others do."

Pfenner sighed again in relief. He took her arm. "Please," he said. "Come with me. Let me show you. Think of the science and put politics behind you."

She regarded him warily but followed. The Vorta let her go and the Jem'Hadar didn't move. The other prisoners watched her as she passed, but there was only one that mattered to her right now. She found Simmons looking back at her, relief clearly on his face, but also confusion. She offered him a quick wink and then disappeared through the door at the other end of the room.

Pfenner led her to a turbolift and didn't speak again until the doors had closed. "You had me worried," he said, keeping his tone low. "I wasn't sure you'd play along."

So he hadn't confused her name. "I didn't exactly want to lose my tongue," she said, opting for a neutral reason. She did not know how far she could trust him yet. "I'm not a scientist. I'm a pilot."

"I know," he answered quickly. "I hacked the system and changed your records. You don't want to be a pilot here, Crewman Formenos." His voice took on a very sad quality. "Not here. Keep playing reluctant. But by the end of the day, you have to be with me. You'll see it's the only way."

Formenos didn't reply to that, but she didn't need to. The lift stopped and the doors opened onto a gleaming white lab. Pfenner led her to a door on the right. She could get cleaned up in there, and change her clothes. She nodded at that, but she wasn't sure how she'd play this whole game out. She was only sure of one thing: Pfenner's way was not the only way.

* * *

The Jem'Hadar were watching. V'dara was where he'd last seen her. Bashir took a deep breath before approaching too close. The morning was turning out to be quite warm and V'dara had not kept well overnight. She looked wilted upon the hook, her head hanging close to her chest. Her hands had fallen as well, and he touched one gently when he reached her. It was the only kindness he could give her with the Jem'Hadar right there.

"Take it down!" one of them ordered. "This place is needed."

_For the lottery,_ Bashir thought, and he squeezed her hand. _Fifteen people are alive today because of you_, he told her silently. _Thirty_, he corrected himself. There had been no lottery last evening either.

But the Jem'Hadar were watching. _Like kapos,_ he thought, getting lost in that memory again for a moment. And strangely, the memory helped him. Again, the boundary between the past and the present--between this camp and that one--blurred. The smell was no more unbearable than the stench he'd woken up to every morning; the sight of the corpse no worse than anything he had seen amid the gas. It was easier work now, even if less pleasant. He had the use of both his hands.

The guards--kapos or Jem'Hadar--were watching, so he went to work, putting the smell out of his mind and ignoring the cold, lifeless feel of her body. He wrapped his arms around her legs just above the knees, tucking his shoulder into her torso. When he lifted, he tuned out the sickening squick of the hook coming out.

She fell across his shoulder and he turned toward his kapos so they could show him where to take her. His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for the large crematorium building he had helped to build, but he did not see it. All the buildings beyond the Appelplatz were identical as far as he could see.

The kapos turned and Bashir followed them past many of those buildings--barracks, he realized--toward another area of the complex. After walking for nearly twenty minutes, they reached a tall pulsating fence that formed a boundary. More Jem'Hadar stood guard at the only gate he could see. They did not hinder Bashir and his minders. V'dara's body was fairly light--a testimony to the treatment of the prisoners--but still heavy after carrying her for so long. He tried to shift her weight but he would have had to put her down to switch her to his other shoulder. He did not think his kapos would allow him such an indulgence.

Four small buildings stood in a square, facing inward on a small, barren courtyard. Beyond them, Bashir could now see a second fence and more barracks behind it. A siren somewhere sounded two short blasts and for the first time that day, Bashir got a sense that there was still life in the camp. Doors opened in the buildings behind the fence and women emerged, wearing striped dresses like V'dara's. Two women per building, each pair carrying a box between them. Maintenance. One of the kommandos Jordan had listed. Bormann had been sent to maintenance.

The kapos stopped beside a door in the nearest of the four buildings. "You will dispose of it here," one of them said, the one with the knife Jordan had mentioned. "The uniform is to be used again." Neither offered to open the door. Clutching V'dara's legs tighter with his left hand, Bashir gripped the handle with his right and pulled it open. He had to step back to avoid the door and then turn to get his burden though the narrow doorway.

The room inside lit up as soon as he crossed the threshold and the door had closed. To his surprise the kapos had not followed him in. He was alone. There was a low table in the center of the room. He walked over to one end and braced himself as he shifted V'dara's body off his shoulder. He tried to lower her gently to the table, but his arm had gone numb. She fell back with a thud.

He studied her a moment and brushed the hair away from her glassy eyes. He remembered how they had lit up when Martok and the others had finally let him in on the escape plan. It wasn't his inclusion that had caused her eyes to shine, but the hope she had had in their plan. She hid it with a calm countenance that would make a Vulcan jealous at any other time, but that one day, he had seen it.

This was not the way he had envisioned it ending. He had had hope then, too. Now he was a shell of that man that had stabbed a Jem'Hadar in the neck to save her and their plan from being destroyed, and she was dead. A prisoner again and now a corpse. Of their original six co-conspirators, only himself and Martok remained. Garak and Worf had joined them at the end. Five had survived to escape. And now there were four.

Sighing deeply, he rubbed his neck and tried to work some feeling back into his shoulder. His hand brushed against the lump, the implant he was given and he remembered that she had one as well. He looked around the room to see if there were any tools. There was only the table, though. A large bin stood to one side of the door and directly behind the table was the crematorium. The table itself tilted up so the body could be rolled into the crematorium. But he didn't want to do that to V'dara, at least not until he had her implant out.

There wasn't even a broom or dust pan for the ashes, and he wondered just how Deyos expected him to dispose of them. Right now though, he wanted the implant, and he didn't think the kapos would wait long for him outside. Telling himself that V'dara was gone in an effort to make what he was about to do easier, he turned her body over and lifted her hair to expose the lump on the back of her neck. Since he had nothing else, he used his fingernails and clawed at her skin.

It took several minutes but at last he had it free. There was no light source in the room beyond a thin slit beneath the ceiling. So he held it up and squinted into the ray of sunlight that filtered in. He could feel his own lightly throbbing at the back of his neck with his pulse, but this one was still and silent. As dead as V'dara. It must have transmitted her vitals as well as her location. But could it listen in to her conversations? She had said it did not, and, given her time in the camp, it was certainly possible that she was right. Wouldn't Deyos have used something he'd overheard against her or the other prisoners? But it was also equally possible that the device was a bug, and that by not acting on any overheard information, Deyos was keeping the secret in the hopes of learning more. But Jordan had come to their barracks last night. There was obviously some freedom of movement found underneath the rules imposed by the Dominion. If the Dominion was aware, they would have cracked down, even if in subtle ways.

Still, he wanted to know for sure. Pfenner had already been mentioned around him. Deyos may already know the objective of their mission. And just when did he start thinking of it as his mission anyway? Bashir wondered. He hadn't wanted any of this. He shook his head. What he did or didn't want did not change his circumstances in the least. He tried to break open the implant with his fingers, but it was small and slippery. In the end, he wiped it off on a relatively clean corner of V'dara's striped dress and placed it between his teeth. He bit down just hard enough to crack the outer casing and then spat to remove anything that might have been left behind on his teeth.

Holding the now opened implant up to the light, he ran every image of every transponder and transmitter he'd even seen through his head. The tiny circuits here told him it was little more than a homing beacon. The device in the back of his neck would simply tell them where he was and if he were still alive. No more and no less. V'dara hadn't worried about it, so neither would he.

He hurried now to strip her of her dress. The kapo had said it would be reused. V'dara deserved more than this undignified cremation, but he had seen death on a much larger scale in Auschwitz. The dead were beyond pain and beyond dignity. Bracing his shoulders under the table, he lifted one side and she rolled into the waiting crematorium. The table fit neatly into the opening in the wall, sealing the chamber. A simple latch near the top held it in place and a lever on one side started the fire. With a loud whooshing sound, the crematorium chamber lit up so hot, Bashir could feel the heat even when he stepped back to the door. Thirty seconds later, the roar of the fire died down to a whisper, and, with a hiss of cool air, the latch lifted and the table fell back into place.

V'dara, inside the chamber, was reduced to ash. And with her body now not obscuring the view, he could see a lever just inside the chamber. He hesitated to touch it but found it cool enough. He lifted it and the bottom of the chamber split, dropping her ashes into a pit below. Where they went from there, he couldn't tell. It was too dark to see. He hoped that counted as disposal. He didn't want to give Deyos any easy excuses to punish him.

As if on cue, the door behind him opened. "You will have to be quicker, human," one Jem'Hadar said, "if you want to keep up."

"And if you don't keep up," the other said, smiling, "you will be punished." He was the one with the knife. There was a certain gleam in his eye. He seemed to enjoy the thought of punishing people. Bashir considered the knife, and wondered which Klingon he'd killed to get it. _Der Schlachter,_ he thought. He remembered Max calling one of the Blockältestes that once. Butcher.

But he just nodded slightly and dropped his eyes to the floor. Thirty a day. The crematorium chamber, itself, was at least efficient. Thirty seconds per body would not be difficult. But carrying them this distance from the Appelplatz would be exhausting, not to mention extremely unpleasant and unsanitary. _Welcome to the Sonderkommando_, he told himself, as he stepped out the door and into the bright sunlight and dust.

* * *

The Vorta, Deyos, was standing in front of him, looking down on him with a smug expression. "It's not everyday we capture a Starfleet Commander," he said, smiling a bit. "Especially not First Officers of flagships. Tell me, what were you doing so far from the _Enterprise_ in a practically defenseless ship?"

Riker knew that he really only had to give name, rank, and serial number, but those answers had already resulted in several bruised ribs and his present kneeling posture. _Three hours now,_ he estimated. Three hours in the bright sunlight of wherever they were. He was already sunburned, and, while getting off his feet had at first been welcome after two hours of standing, his knees were starting to ache. The heat and bright light didn't seem to bother Deyos or the three Jem'Hadar who had been guarding him this whole time.

Besides, the Vorta already knew more than Riker's name, rank, and serial number, and Riker wanted to know how much that was.

"Shore leave," he said, eyeing the Jem'Hadar on either side of him. "Humans need a break now and then, even during war."

Deyos' eyebrows dropped to show his skepticism. "Shore leave? At the D'Nexi Lines? Not likely." He looked up at the nearest Jem'Hadar, who prompty backhanded Riker across the face.

The slap stung and Riker's legs were so weakened that they couldn't hold him upright against the force of it. He spun until he fell on his side and smacked into the hard, dry ground with enough force to kick up a layer of dust that left him choking. The other Jem'Hadar grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his knees.

When Riker's eyes had watered enough that he could open them he found Deyos waiting patiently. "Would you like to try again?" the Vorta asked.

Riker was still coughing up the dust so he couldn't answer right away. Deyos waited. Finally, Riker had his breath. His voice was rough when he spoke. "Only if you want me to make something up."

That at least got Deyos to quirk a brow. The second Jem'Hadar hit him that time, and Riker fell onto his other side and sucked up even more dust in his attempts to breathe. The tug on his collar cut off what little air he could manage. When it released him, he braced himself forward on his hands and spat out the dust at Deyos's feet. The Vorta stepped back but otherwise didn't seem to mind.

"I doubt you could," he said. "You don't seem to have much of an imagination."

Riker tried to remember what he'd wanted to learn from this conversation, but at present he decided he had only learned that his captor had at least a small sense of humor. When he got his breathing back under control, he gathered his dignity and pushed himself back up on his knees. "I don't need an imagination," he told the Vorta. "Neither do you. You have the runabout."

Deyos froze for just a moment, but Riker noticed and counted it a small victory. With his composure once more firmly in place, Deyos committed his first mistake. "We do not have the runabout," he admitted. "It was useless. Your navigational logs had been wiped, and keeping the vessel on hand would have presented a security breach."

Riker coughed again, trying to rid himself of the last bits of dust in his lung. But he also used it to give himself time to process Deyos's words. They didn't keep the runabout. Bashir's report on his escape from Internment Camp 371 told how Garak had contacted the runabout that had been left in orbit. Riker hadn't seen much of this camp, but he knew he hadn't seen anything that even Data could turn into a transmitter. Deyos had a weak spot. And the logs had been wiped. Riker knew he hadn't wiped the logs and no one else had had the time. This only confirmed his theory that Section 31 had set them up to be captured, though he still couldn't figure how they'd had time to do it either.

"Why wipe the logs?" Deyos asked when Riker stopped coughing, "if you were only on shore leave. Why not head out of the sector instead of into it? And why would you take such a small ship when you were in obviously dangerous territory?"

"I didn't wipe the logs," Riker answered, and he was rather glad that he could answer at least one question truthfully. "I wasn't aware they were wiped until you said so. We were headed out of the sector but were called back. And we could only take a runabout because our larger ships are needed for combat."

Deyos raised one eyebrow, apparently surprised that Riker had said so much. "Why were you called back?"

Riker hadn't had time to fill in all the details of his story yet, and the recall was a new development. He knew his answer would earn him another lungful of dust, but it would also buy him a bit more time. "I don't know," he said and tried not to flinch before the blow came.

But this time, it wasn't a hand that hit him, but the butt of a rifle. He fell backwards as the rifle hit his chest and the air was knocked from his lungs. He didn't have to worry about coughing because he couldn't quite remember how to breathe. His eyes stung from it though. It was awkward lying there with his legs folded underneath him, but breathing was the only thing really on Riker's mind. The Jem'Hadar didn't bother to lift him this time and as he finally got a bit of air to go into his desparate lungs, he heard Deyos speaking.

"I do dislike hearing that answer."

Now the Jem'Hader grabbed for him, and the thick fist at the front of his collar choked him as he was once again placed on his knees. It was considerably harder this time to stand from the knees up. "I don't--" he began again, but changed his mind. "I just follow orders," he gasped as he clutched at his sternum with one hand. "They said return. I returned. We don't ellaborate in dangerous territory. We just obey."

"Hmph," Deyos snorted. "You're the First Officer."

Riker nodded. "I would have been briefed in person when I reached _Enterprise_."

Deyos was silent for a bit and Riker hoped that meant he bought the story. Pushing his aching chest out of his mind, he tried concentrating on the Vorta. Why question him at all? When Starfleet personnel were replaced by Changelings, the replacement contained all their knowledge and memories. Somehow that information was extracted from the original. Why did the Vorta not use that technique to gather intelligence from prisoners?

"_If_ I were to believe you," Deyos finally said, "how would you explain the presence of Doctor Bashir on your vessel? He is not assigned to the _Enterprise_. He is not a member of your crew."

_Yeah,_ Riker thought, _that does throw a monkey in the wrench. Er, wrench in the monkey? It must be the heat. Or the rifle._ Bashir, he had to think about Bashir. He had been assigned to the _Enterprise_. Maybe there was something there. "He was temporarily assigned to the _Enterprise_," he said, hoping that giving Deyos that much would buy him more time to come up with a better answer.

"Yes," Deyos confirmed, "but he was transferred back to Deep Space Nine very recently. I'll ask again: Why was he on your runabout?"

Riker took a deep breath. "Shore leave," he offered and then held up his hands to try and block the strike he was sure he was going to get. "You may have noticed," he quickly added, "that he isn't doing so well. He's shell-shocked. Counselor Dax thought shore leave might do him some good. So we brought him along."

"Shell-shocked?" Deyos asked, clearly skeptical of that diagnosis.

Riker made a point of eying the Jem'Hadar again, knowing the Dominion's genetically-engineered soldiers would never suffer from post-traumatic stress. "Post-Traumatic Stress disorder. Happens to soldiers in battle. Too many times facing a life-or-death situation. They need to get away from the danger."

"Hmmm...," Deyos intoned, mulling that over. "He does seem a bit out of sorts. He was never this distant before. Perhaps the six months he was reported missing and dead have something to do with his present condition. Tell me, what did actually happen there?"

It just didn't make sense. Deyos knew so much about who was assigned where and when. Why didn't he know more? Why didn't he extract the information in an unstoppable manner? Riker was relieved that he didn't, but it still didn't make sense. The Dominion could take an abductee's knowledge and personality. Why bother questioning and risking being deceived. And what was he supposed to say about Bashir? He couldn't exactly tell Deyos that Section 31 had marooned the doctor. Flat-out lying was his only option. "He couldn't remember. We found him on Deyon III. Maybe we should be asking you what happened."

He knew he deserved the backhand after that one. So once more he was coughing up dust. But Deyos' silence confirmed that the Dominion had been the ones to render Deyon III uninhabitable. He didn't ask how Bashir could be on the planet when it couldn't support life, and Riker didn't bother to offer the fact that Bashir was found _in_ the planet, rather than on it. The layers of rock between him and the surface filtered most of the contaminants in the water and air so that Bashir could survive. Deyos might possibly see Bashir's survival there, while the rest of the world died around him, as the event leading to his post-traumatic stress disorder and thus, need for shore leave. Riker also worried that Deyos might then use this information against Bashir in some way, but it couldn't be helped. He had to explain Bashir somehow and he'd done the best he could to deflect Deyos from the doctor. In Bashir's present state, Riker didn't know if he could be called upon to hold out if he were questioned. So it was better to cast doubts in Deyos mind about Bashir's usefulness at this stage. His role as 'example' would mean that Deyos wouldn't kill him.

"If you are lying," Deyos said. "I will find out." And then, to Riker's surprise he turned and walked away.

But that still left the three Jem'Hadar who took it upon themselves to pummel him further and then return him to his knees once more. Riker felt the salty wetness of blood in his mouth and decided it was better than dust. It was just easier that way. _Look at the bright side,_ he told himself. But he had to make up the bright side, and he wasn't doing a good job of convincing himself. He was certain that the runabout's capture was Section 31's doing. But would they bother to get them out when they had the information they wanted? He hurt and he was anxious about the lottery Jordan had spoken of. He feared for Simmons, who had been assigned to the plant, and he worried about Formenos, whom he hadn't seen since they were processed. And then there was Bashir. Bashir was losing his mind, and Riker didn't see any way to stop that process, not in this place.

* * *

Formenos spent the day with Pfenner, and he spent the entire day trying to instill in her an enthusiasm for the science behind K-Layer Subspace Concealment. And it worked. It would have been incredible, if it wasn't for the Dominion. Her head swam in the diagrams and equations even though she'd done well in Quantum Physics in flight school. She wished then that she had gone to the Academy and studied more. She would have understood it better, so that when she escaped or was liberated from the camp, she could take the technology with her, at least in theory.

The plant had one central laboratory, where Pfenner and a few other scientists theorized, made models, and ran computer similuations. There was a much larger area where prisoners scavenged pieces of junked ships into test vessels. She had seen Simmons there, pulling apart an intake manifold under the watchful eye of his own personal Jem'Hadar. Three of the other buildings, Pfenner had explained, held the junkyard, with over one hundred junked ships, while the largest building served as dilithium storage. Two other buildings remained to the complex. One housed a cargo transporter. The other held the pilots and living quarters for the scientists.

The transporter had taken the two of them to a starbase orbiting the planet. After they had materialized, a pilot was transported with one of the shoddy, cobbled-together vessels from the junkyards. And seven Jem'Hadar. The Jem'Hadar all looked alike, but the pilot was someone she recognized. Carl Payne and she had graduated flight school together. He looked past her though, and she realized he probably didn't recognize her since her hair had been shorn.

"Prepare the vessel." A female Vorta clapped her hands, and three other prisoners moved foward to obey. They pushed the ship into place on a launch pad, facing the airlock doors. The Vorta turned to the Jem'Hadar. "And the pilot."

Carl was pushed to the side of the launch bay where an EV-suit was hanging. All seven Jem'Hadar went with him, and Formenos wondered why they guarded him so tightly.

"The ship is equipped with little more than a transmitter and receiver," Pfenner explained, facing away from the far wall where Carl was being forced into the suit. "Once it is launched, the planet-side base will begin the shift into subspace. Then this base will emit a targeted signal. We've been able to reach the K-layer with our transmissions for weeks now. But the ship. . . . This ship, when it reaches layer K, will receive the signal and respond. Once the base received the response, the planet-side base will iniate retrieval."

Formenos didn't miss the hesitation. They'd not yet managed to reach the desired layer with the ship. She wondered why he had trouble saying it. But she had a guess. She heard guilt in every word Pfenner spoke, and read remorse in his eyes.

Carl was lifted into the cockpit. Only then did Pfenner look his way. And when he did, Carl saluted him. Pfenner's shoulders shook with his next intake of breath, but he held his emotions in check. The Jem'Hadar sealed the cockpit and stepped away from the ship.

Pfenner led her behind a transparent barrier and the airlock doors opened. The other prisoners stayed in the bay, gripping handholds along the wall. The Jem'Hadar also remained. The Vorta, though, was behind the barrier. A transparent door closed, sealing the barrier.

A Comm line opened. "Ready to launch," the Vorta announced.

"Proceed," came the word from the planet-side base.

"Three seconds to launch," replied the Vorta.

There was no verbal countdown. Three seconds later the small ship shot out into space. The Vorta announced the successful launch and then watched Pfenner carefully. Formenos watched the ship as it, and Carl, disappeared from sight.

The airlock doors closed again, but no one made a sound. Formenos counted to herself. When she reached thirty, the Vorta spoke. "No response. Trial aborted."

Pfenner sighed, dropping his shoulders and bracing his arms against the console. The barrier door opened and two Jem'Hadar escorted her and Formenos back to the transporter pad.

The Vorta followed them out. "How many are left, Doctor Pfenner?"

Pfenner's jaw shook as he answered. "Forty-two."

The Vorta's eyebrows rose, but she made no other remark. The transporter's beam took them and deposited them back at the plant.

"What about the ship?" Formenos asked as they headed to their quarters. "And the pilot?"

Pfenner stopped and faced her. "That is why I must succeed. Don't you see?" he pleaded. "I'm no traitor. I don't do it for the Dominion. That ship didn't receive our signal. It didn't reach the K-Layer. So it also didn't receive a signal to return. It's lost. That pilot is lost. And I've only got forty-two more to get it right. I don't want to waste those forty-two lives, Eline. I've got to find the solution."

* * *

Bashir had been given five minutes to explore the sick house before the wounded began to come in. He had found a cabinet with various bandages, a vascular regenerator, and a handful of other simple medical devices. No antibiotics or anethetics, no surgical equipment. There was nothing much to treat a life-threatening wound, or even an infection from a paper-cut. He himself had a basin in which to wash his hands, but without soap, he could not even be called on to stop the spread of infection from one patient to another. Most of the patients though, didn't call for much more than the supplies he had on hand. He spent the day treating minor wounds, the worst of which was a broken arm. Six Jem'Hadar stood guard outside to make sure that none shirked their chores by lurking at the sick house needlessly. After treatment, each patient thanked him and then hurried back out the door to be escorted back to their work detail.

By the time the sky began its turn to red, Bashir had begun to feel like a doctor again. The sick house was a simple room with the cabinet and basin along one wall and a table in the center. Nothing else. No bunks overfull with dying prisoners. No foul smell of dysentery and disease. This was not Auschwitz, and the memories did not seek to convince him it was.

That changed when he stepped out the door. The Jem'Hadar appeared again as kapos and the gathering they took him to was little different from any roll call the Germans had called. Hundreds of striped-uniformed prisoners stood in ranks while Jem'Hadar moved among them counting. Bashir, however, was not placed in their ranks. He was pushed to the side and made to stand by the building where the hooks hung on the wall. The front wall was once more rolled up into the ceiling and the back wall was dark from where V'dara had been. Tonight, there would be a lottery.

* * *

Garulos had thought he was relieved to reach the end of the work day. He had had only one short break for lunch--if it could be called that. Everyone on his detail was given twenty minutes to receive and swallow the bland, pasty ration bars that served as food in the camp. Two bars. Garulos had watched the other prisoners and followed their example. He ate one bar, as distasteful as it was, and slipped the other into his clothes. It had been quite a trick to keep it there during the rest of the day. He had no pockets. The bar had had to be tucked behind the waist-band of his pants. He wasn't looking forward to how it would taste after sweating over it all day. But he did acknowlege that he was very hungry, perhaps hungry enough to eat even a sweat-soaked, bland, pasty ration bar. He just wished he had some water to wash it down with.

But right then what he wished most was to sit. When they had returned to the area in front of the building with the hooks, Garulos had miraculously managed to find Bormann among the other prisoners. They could not, however, find any other members of their crew. Except Bashir. Bashir was standing next to the building opposite the Vorta who ran the camp. He was flanked by three Jem'Hadar and he looked a mess. More Jem'Hadar moved methodically around the rows and lines of prisoners, arranged in blocks. They were silent, but Garulos could guess what they were doing. Counting. And counting again.

Two hours had passed already. The sun was dropping, and with it, the temperature. Bright, glaring lights had flashed on with an audible boom and still the prisoners stood. And still the Jem'Hadar counted. It might have been maddening if Garulos hadn't had his legs to focus on. They ached from the fatigue of working for twelve hours to build three barracks. And to tear down two others. It was tiring, not to mention pointless work. The condemned buildings were in no more disrepair than any others.

At first, his legs had welcomed the respite of being still. But after a while, the weight of his body had caused them to ache again. His feet begged for relief and his back protested as well. And still they stood. And still the Jem'Hadar counted. Garulos had heard the conversation the night before, how the human, Jordan, had compared this camp to one called Auschwitz. He wished he'd studied more Earth history now. He wondered if that camp was as ridiculous as this one. The work detail had made no sense, and now, if this scene was to be believed, Jem'Hadar couldn't count higher than sixteen. They had passed by him at least six times already. No one had moved or fallen from the lines, so the sixth count would be no different from the first. And yet they came around again.

Finally, when the sun was completely gone from the sky, the Jem'Hadar seemed satisfied. They conferred with each other, and then one moved forward to report to the Vorta. The latter nodded, apparently satisfied, and Garulos found himself growing anxious. He also remembered what Jordan had said of the lottery, and of course, he'd seen one of those hooks in use. As much as he wanted to be not be standing anymore, he didn't want to have to move from the spot where he stood. He didn't want anyone to.

Another Vorta appeared from behind the building and handed a PADD to the commanding Vorta--the other prisoners had called him Deyos. Deyos then began to call out numbers. "Three hundred and two, nine hundred forty-six, twenty-eight."

Garulos expected to hear a gasp of shock or a wimper of despair, but he heard nothing. Three people, however stepped out from ranks and walked to the front, stopping in front of the three hooks inside the building.

Deyos called three more numbers, and the man beside Garulos took a deep breath and shuddered. Then he stepped forward. Two women joined him and they stood just to the side of the original three. Six Jem'Hadar moved forward as well. They moved to either side of the original three and, each taking an arm, they lifted their prisoners up and impaled them on the hooks. Garulos shook when they screamed and could not bring himself to look at their writhing forms. They did not die quickly. It seemed an eternity before anyone spoke or moved. It was Deyos, and he called three more numbers and then said, "Take them down."

Garulos chanced to look up, expecting to see the Jem'Hadar remove the dead prisoners from the hooks, but it was the second group of condemned who did so. The man who had been standing beside him had the victim on the left. He wrapped his arms around the prisoner's legs and lifted. Garulas was shocked to see the victim's arm grab hold of the man's shoulder. He was not dead.

But still he was lifted from the hook and laid on the ground in front of the building. Then the Jem'Hadar took that man who had been standing beside Garulos, and the two women who were called with him, and lifted them onto the hooks while the next three watched silently.

Garulos wanted to scream along with those on the hooks. He tried to find some reasoning for the Dominion to do this to its prisoners, but it didn't make any sense. Why not simply execute them? The Jem'Hadar had rifles. Why not shoot them? Why make them suffer?

When the screams ceased. Deyos read three more numbers and the process repeated. Before the gathering was dismissed fifteen had lost their lives, and fifteen more had been condemned.

* * *

O'Brien gave out a low whistle. "This is not what Julian needs right now."

Sisko nodded. In front of them, on the main viewscreen, were nearly two hundred vessels of Federation and Klingon designs. And that was only the portion of the gathering armada that fit in the viewscreen at present magnification. The Romulans had yet to arrive. The warp trails of the two vessels had led to D'Nexi and beyond. And, given the present state of affairs at D'Nexi, the _Defiant_ could not simply continue on alone into enemy territory, cloak or not. The D'Nexi Lines had exploded, and the _Defiant_ was now just one of many ships about to engage in combat with the enemy.

"It's not what any of us needs right now," Ezri added.

"Except it's what the war needs right now," Sisko countered. "If we can turn them back at D'Nexi today, we'll have gained a significant victory. The Dominion will have to retreat from this sector."

"I hate war," O'Brien said.

"So do I, Chief," Sisko replied. "So do I."


	4. Chapter Fourteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fourteen**

Bormann was still staring at the empty hooks when the others around him, except Garulos, began to move. A body brushed between them. "Take these and follow me."

Bormann looked to the voice and opened his hand. A red patch of cloth was placed there and a thin man gestured that they should follow quickly.

They were led to a barrack building, very much like all the ones Bormann had cleaned throughout the day. There was a door on one end that slipped up into the ceiling and little else besides. Already the building was crowded with prisoners, all men, and all sitting or lying on the hard dirt floor. The corner just to the left of the door was empty of people and stank. Bormann had cleaned enough barracks to know why. He had not once seen any waste reclamation units or latrines. Like animals, the prisoners were made to live with their filth. But like men, they scraped together as much dignity as they could manage and kept it to one place.

The prisoner they were following led them to the back corner. "Do you think the Commander's here, Lieutenant?" Garulos asked beside him.

"I hope so," Bormann replied. He looked to the left and the right, scanning each face they passed, and realized there were already more than a hundred prisoners in this tight space. But he did not see Commander Riker.

The man stopped near the back and pointed to two empty spots on either side of a prisoner sitting hunched against the wall. Only then did Bormann realize who the prisoner was. "Simmons!"

Instead of raising his head, Simmons ducked it. Garulos sat down beside him. "We heard Jordan last night, sir. They took your tongue?"

Simmons didn't look up, but he nodded. Bormann couldn't think of any consoling words so he just put a hand on Simmons shoulder. He sat down on Simmons' other side. While Garulos asked if he had seen Commander Riker, Bormann finished his scan of the barracks. He saw only one other familiar face. Jordan was sitting with a group in the far corner. They sat in a tight circle and spoke quietly amongst themselves. Then one stood in the center of the circle and the others reached forward to touch his legs. They all bowed their heads and finally, Bormann realized what was going on. They were praying.

Bormann realized it, but he didn't understand it. Praying was something from the past, when humans believed in deities who were greater than themselves. He wondered which one of those deities this group of prisoners were praying to, and why they bothered. No deity had stopped the lottery that night. None had stopped it in all the other days and nights of this camp. Praying, he supposed, was a crutch, something to give them false hope.

He heard the "amen" and then the group broke up. The prisoner who had led Bormann and Garulos to their spot tapped Jordan on the shoulder and pointed toward them. Jordan smiled and moved over to them.

"What were you doing?" Garulos asked, nodding his head to where the group had been.

"Bible Study," Jordan answered. "You're welcome to join us. We meet every evening. Today, we were blessing Ensign Morales. He's volunteered to be a missionary."

Bormann wouldn't have asked, but since Garulos had, he was curious. "Missionary?"

Jordan nodded. "He is going to take Psalm 139 to the other barracks. We have no Bible. We rely upon memorization. Each barrack dedicates a new missionary, who will change barracks each day, rotating to all the barracks in the men's camp until he returns to his first barracks, as Jafhe did tonight."

Garulos grunted, though Bormann knew that was a sign of confusion. "What happens when you run out of memorization?"

Jordan shrugged at that. "A genuine concern, so each night we pray that the Holy Spirit will continue to give us Scripture so that we don't run out. I'm Jordan, Lieutenant, by the way. I don't believe we were properly introduced."

"Bormann," Bormann replied. "Also a liuetenant." He touched Simmons' shoulder again. "As is Mr. Simmons, here. And our associate is Crewman Garulos. Have you seen Commander Riker, by any chance?"

Jordan's smile evaporated. "No, but nice to meet you all the same. I would suspect the Commander had an appointment with our Commandant. Doctor Bashir, though, will arrive later. So, your turn for questions." At that, every head in the barracks turned their way and other prisoners inched closer. "What can you tell us about the state of things outside this camp?"

Three hours later, Bormann's throat was hoarse, and the door to the barracks opened once again.

* * *

It was a long walk back to the crematorium, but this time Bashir did not have to carry the bodies. In fact, Schlacter had hit him twice for trying to help one of the condemned prisoners who was struggling with a body bigger than herself. Once they reached the crematorium, though, the bodies were dropped onto a stack and left to Bashir. One by one, he carried them inside and placed them on the table. Their clothes went into the bin near the door. The table was lifted into place and the crematorium did its work. The fifth body though, was more than a body. It wasn't until he had picked him up that Bashir realized the man was still alive. He hadn't moved, but his pulse and breath were hard to ignore.

As was his voice. "Please," he begged, as Bashir placed him on the table. "Not the oven."

"I have to," Bashir told him. "I'm sorry."

"Not alive," the man argued. "You put corpses in there. I'm not dead. Not yet. Not the oven."

Bashir realized then that the man wasn't asking to live. Rather he was asking that he not be burned alive. He wrestled with himself. Would it be ethical to put the man into the crematorium alive, just so Bashir could say he hadn't killed him? Would it be euthanasia to kill the man quickly before burning his body? Would it be murder? He would die anyway, but painfully.

"It's fast," he told the man, hoping the man would take the burden from his shoulders.

Two thumps landed on the door and Bashir looked up. The kapos. The door opened. "Why do you delay?" one of them barked.

"He--he's not dead," Bashir stammered.

"Shoot me!" the man cried.

"Burn him," Schlachter ordered.

It would be as much murder to burn the man alive as to kill him before he was burned. Bashir had never taken a life outside of combat before--or outside of being forced. He was being forced here as well. He could not win. In that case, he would give the man the least painful death. He began to undress the man, taking off his shirt. The kapos, thinking he was complying, stepped back out the door. As Bashir pulled the shirt over the man's face, the man pleaded with him again. "Shh," Bashir told him. "You won't burn." He held the man's face, still covered by his shirt, in both his hands, and then he twisted as hard as he could. The bones in the man's neck snapped and his breathing hitched. His body relaxed and released the last of his breath. Bashir felt for a pulse and finding none, he continued removing the man's clothes. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

As the body dissolved in the flames, he shuddered and leaned into the wall. There were ten more bodies outside and the crematorium was quick. He had no time to ponder the morality of his situation. _Merciful_, he told himself. _Murder,_ he argued back.

Fortunately, the other ten were already dead. He processed them as quickly as he could. He was anxious to go back to living people. When he had finished, he stepped outside to the waiting kapos and the kommando of condemned prisoners. They began the march back, and as they passed the main gate, two other kapos took the women from the line and marched them away. The men were deposited in their respective barracks until Bashir was once again alone with the Jem'Hadar. He was stopped in front of one long building and one of the kapos handed him a small patch of cloth and two bars of pasty rations. "These are your barracks," he said. The other one opened the door and shoved him inside.

Once inside, the door slammed into the ground behind him, and he had to grab a wall with one hand just to keep from falling. All around him he saw the sunken faces of starving men. They stared at him from the ground and from the wooden slats that served as bunks. Those closest put their hands to their faces and looked away. Several got up and moved. Bashir knew why they did.

He stank. He was covered in filth and blood from the bodies of V'dara and the night's lottery winners. He had not had an opportunity to change clothes or even to wash his hands from the night's work. The ration bars he held were contaminated now because he'd touched them. He wasn't hungry anyway, but he might have given them away to someone. He dropped them there by the door. If someone took them, it wouldn't be his doing. Someone did, and he brushed them off on his pant legs before eating one. Bashir looked away and swallowed the bile that was inching its way up from his stomach. He had been there once. He knew what it was like to starve.

He stepped further in, looking for an empty place. The bunks, he saw, were full, which left only the ground for sleeping, and the ground was where the rats would come. Unless he could find Max.

"He's of the Five!" someone called out. "Like V'dara. Show some respect." That sent a flurry of whispers coursing through the building.

Nearly all the men on the floor stood up and about a dozen began moving towards him. "Tell us about the camp," one said.

"I heard it was on an asteroid," said another. That one had a French accent, but he didn't look like Henri.

"Did you really make a transmitter out of the ventilation system?"

Bashir looked from face to face but he couldn't answer. There was no ventilation system beyond the gaps in the wooden walls. There was no place to move. Too many people pressed around him, nearly pushing him into the bunks.

"Leave him be," another voice chided. "It's his first day and he has a harder job than any of you."

Bashir recognized his voice and his face when it appeared beside him. "Jordan."

Jordan smiled and took his arm. "This way. Your crewmates from the _Enterprise_ are here. We'll get Commander Riker, too, as soon as he's released into the system."

Riker. He remembered now. The runabout, the Jem'Hadar, Deyos. The bunks disappeared and he could see that everyone would be sleeping on the floor. He followed Jordan to the rear of the building and found three other faces he remembered, but not Riker's. They covered their noses, too, and everyone around them made room on the floor for Bashir to sit.

"What job is that?" Garulos asked, wrinkling his nose.

"The Sonderkommando," Bashir replied as he leaned into the wall and stared at his left hand. It was whole and unbroken, but as he watched, it bent and twisted and the bunks came back. There had to be a thousand men in that one building and the press of all those bodies made it hard to breathe.

"Disposing of the bodies," Jordan said. "V'dara had that honor as well. Doctor?"

"I need to go outside," Bashir told him. "I can't breathe."

"You can't go outside," Jordan told him, touching his arm again. "They lock the doors. Just relax. This is our free time, the only freedom we have. Just sit back and enjoy it. Get some sleep. Mornings come fast here."

* * *

Commander William T. Riker repeated his name and rank over and over again in a whisper. His voice had given out long ago. The monotonous push of his breath through his lips gave him an anchor, something to hang onto so he wouldn't fall. Falling gave his knees a momentary reprieve, but the beatings he received caused more acute pain over larger parts of his body and further threatened his stability when, once again, he was back on his knees.

It was cold. The burning, bright sunlight of day had turned into a black night with no warmth. The Jem'Hadar hovering over him did not shiver, but Riker found himself unable to stop. His teeth rattled and his whole body shook, causing him to teeter on his knees. His legs were numb from lack of heat and circulation, but his knees were in constant pain.

Jem'Hadar didn't sleep either. They had received their tubes of ketracel-white after the screams of the lottery losers had quieted. Riker received nothing and his hunger added to his instability. His vision, diminished by the darkness, swam in waves of motion. The wind whispered to him. _Lie down, sleep._

"Riker," he breathed, trying to drown out the wind, "William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the _USS Enterprise_. Riker, William Thomas, Commander, First Officer of the _USS Enterprise_."

* * *

Formenos lay in her bed, covered by a thin blanket. She had a small pillow under her head and a real mattress beneath her body. But she could not sleep. She ran the day through her memory searching for clues, trying to remember everything that Pfenner had said, every expression on his face. He had pleaded with her. Carl was lost in the experiment and Pfenner had pleaded with her to understand the urgency of the project. He said he didn't want to waste the forty-two that were left. There was such pain in his voice when he said it. She believed him. Pfenner was no traitor, not in the literal sense. Nor was he a collaborator as they were usually thought of. He didn't even do it for the science. He didn't work for the Dominion because he wanted to. He was forced to, in a more subtle way. The Dominion hadn't used force with him. No torture, no threats. They used guilt. For every failed experiment, another pilot was lost. And he felt himself to blame.

But he wasn't to blame. The Dominion was, and she had to convince Pfenner of it. He was close to success and success would cost millions, even billions, of lives. The pilots were expendable, though she felt awful even thinking it. But it was the truth and the pilots themselves would likely understand that. They were prisoners of the Dominion; they knew what Dominion victory would mean for the Federation. Pfenner was a precious thing in war time: a compassionate man. But there was a reason compassion was curbed in wartime. Pfenner was too nice, too hurt by the loss of the pilots, to see that he was leading the Dominion to victory, and that that cost was higher.

She had to convince him. He had more freedom than anyone else in the camp. And he had the knowledge. He could sabotage the project, corrupt the data. And if he couldn't be convinced, she would have to curb her compassion, and make sure that the project, and its creator, were destroyed.

* * *

"Captain Sisko," Picard began. "It's good to see you again, though I wasn't aware the _Defiant_ was assigned to this fleet." His countenance matched his words. He smiled amicably, but his tone was clipped and formal. The _Enterprise_ was being readied for battle even as they waited for the fleet to assemble.

"Good to see you, as well," Sisko returned. "We haven't been assigned to the fleet, but it seems our missions have intersected. I have a runabout I'd like to talk to you about. But not over the comm." The fleet was converging near the Garhua Nebula in an attemp to avoid Dominion sensors, but Sisko knew the Dominion wasn't the only organization that might be listening.

Picard apparently knew that, too, because his smile never wavered. "Understandable," he said. "Would you care to meet in my Ready Room?"

"That would be fine," Sisko replied. "I'd like to bring a few of my senior staff if you don't mind."

"Not at all. I was going to invite a few of mine as well. When would be convenient for you?."

"Now, if you're not overly busy."

Picard's smile widened. "That would be fine. I'll have Mr. Data meet you in Transporter Room Two."

Sisko nodded and Picard's image winked out. "Dax, Chief, you're with me," he orded, standing up. "Mr. Worf, you have the bridge."

Worf took the captain's chair while Dax and O'Brien followed Sisko to the turbolift.

"What will we tell them?" Dax asked, catching up with him.

"The truth," Sisko replied. But then he stopped and grabbed her lightly by the arm. He held her gaze until she nodded. There was some truth that could never be told. That settled, they went on.

When they materialized on the _Enterprise_, Commander Data was waiting for them. "Welcome aboard," he said in greeting, smiling lightly. "The Captain is waiting in his Ready Room."

"Lead the way," Sisko replied, smiling back.

They walked down the corridors in comfortable silence. Data only spoke again to order the turbolift's destination. When they reached the Bridge, Deanna Troi rose from the captain's chair and joined them.

"Can I get you some tea?" Picard asked as he stood and offered his hand.

"No, thank you," Sisko replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. Behind him the door swished closed.

"Mr. Data?" Picard said, looking to the android.

Data opened a tricorder and scanned the room. "Secure, sir," he reported.

Picard nodded and pulled down on his jacket. "Good. Please, have a seat." He gestured toward a sofa and some chairs and sat himself. "I believe we've all met, so we can skip the introductions. What can you tell me about my runabout?"

Captain Sisko met his gaze, deciding to get right to the point. "We have it."

Picard's eyebrows lifted. Counselor Troi looked just as surprised. Data simply cocked his head slightly. "Her crew?" Picard asked.

"We don't have them," Sisko replied, "but we have an idea who does. We were able to trace the runabout from the Faeros system. It had been cloaked. When we found it, its logs had been wiped and there was no one and no cloaking equipment on board. We did, however, find Doctor Bashir's civilian clothes in one of the lockers."

"Doctor Bashir?" Picard asked, clearly confused.

"Civilian?" Troi added.

"He gave me his resignation a few days ago. I haven't submitted it. As far as Starfleet is concerned, he's still an officer. He left the station on a transport shuttle early that morning but disappeared in less than an hour."

Picard leaned back in his chair. "You think it's Section 31."

Sisko nodded. "I know it's Section 31. It's the only way to explain the cloak and Bashir's presence aboard your runabout."

* * *

"He didn't leave to join them," Dax spoke up. "He left . . . ."

"He left so they would kill him," O'Brien finished for her. "He told me the night before that he was jealous of Vláďa, one of his friends in Auschwitz, because Vláďa had the strength to commit suicide and he didn't. He wanted Section 31 to take him and kill him."

Troi paled and her mouth opened slightly, but she didn't speak.

"He fooled you," Sisko told her. "He fooled all of you. He's not well."

"I forced him," Dax admitted. "I took him off duty until he could open up to me. I pushed him too far and took away his one refuge."

"If he was unstable, he shouldn't have been on duty anyway, Lieutenant," Picard assured her. "But he was awfully good at that deception, wasn't he?"

"That part wasn't a deception," Dax said, defending Bashir. "He was perfectly capable in the Infirmary."

"Doctor Crusher would agree with you," Troi finally said. "He's remarkable. I've never met a human who could block my senses."

"He's in trouble," Sisko said, bringing the conversation back to the main issue. "And so is your runabout crew."

Chief O'Brien took up the report from there. "We found two warp trails near the runabout. They led us here, to D'Nexi."

"Behind the lines," Sisko added, "to be exact. I think we can assume the Dominion has them."

Picard and Troi were struck by that news. Data, however, remained stoic. "Is there any reason to think that Section 31 is here? Or perhaps they thought Dominion capture would be a more appropriate punishment for Doctor Bashir and our runabout was an unfortunate bystander."

Sisko shook his head. "I don't think it's either of those. We were sent to find the runabout. But before that, our assignment was to find Pfenner and uncover the Dominion's plot."

Picard nodded. "Riker's team's mission was to find Pfenner. There had been a report that he was in the Faeros system. Admiral Necheyev authorized the mission and insisted on the inclusion of one Lieutenant Dayton. She was the only one on the team I didn't know."

"She was probably a plant," Sisko concluded.

Picard tugged on his uniform jacket again. "It wouldn't surprise me if Admiral Necheyev was involved with Section 31."

"They want to find Pfenner as much as we do," Sisko told them all. "I think they know where Pfenner is, and they set up the capture of your runabout, with our doctor aboard, in order to get to Pfenner."

"So they are prisoners of war," Picard surmised. "Do you think they have a plan to get them back?"

* * *

The barracks had been quiet and dark for at least a few hours when Deyos returned to him. Riker vaguely worried that he'd be questioned again. He was too tired, too dazed, too beaten to come up with good lies. He could barely even lift his head. But Deyos surprised him.

"I've decided to give you a kommando all your own," the Vorta said. "Stand him up."

The Jem'Hadar on either side of Riker, grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. But Riker's feet were numb and his knees cramped. His legs refused to hold him, and he fell to the ground again. He would have liked to stay there, to close his eyes and let sleep take him, but Deyos had other plans.

"Keep him up," Deyos ordered. "He has work to do."

The Jem'Hadar lifted him again and this time they kept their hold, which caused his shoulders to ache.

"I'm giving you a rather light assignment," Deyos said in mock sincerety. "A cleaning detail. You should thank me. We've even gathered all the necessary supplies at your work site. You have it easy compared to some." He wagged his finger at the Jem'Hadar and then started walking. The Jem'Hadar followed, dragging Riker between them. His legs were regaining their feeling and now were beseiged by the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of a million and a half pins and needles.

Even more uncomfortable was the smell as they drew near the work site. Slaughter site was a more accurate term, Riker decided. He had heard the screams earlier in the evening. As they rounded the corner of the building, Riker held his hand up against the light and the putrid smell. He saw a bucket and brush standing by the wall and realized that this was what Deyos expected him to clean. He dared a glance at the hooks, expecting three bodies to still be hung there. But they were empty. The walls behind them and the floor below them were smeared with blood and filth from the gruesome, painful deaths the hooks had provided to fifteen souls that evening. And they would kill fifteen more in the morning.

"If it's not clean by the morning roll call," Deyos warned, "the names won't be chosen randomly. Your crew will be next."

Riker was too busy staring at the blood. He didn't see Deyos turn to leave, or the gesture that ordered the Jem'Hadar to drop him. Unfortunately, his legs weren't quite ready to hold him upright and he landed on the sticky floor in another puddle of blood and detritus away from the hooks. "Clean," one of the Jem'Hadar ordered, kicking him in the ribs to make sure he'd heard. Riker had to swallow the bile he'd been fighting to keep down. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and tried to stand. But his legs were still assailed by those pins and needles, though less of them now, so he was forced to crawl through the muck to reach the bucket of tepid, soapy water.

* * *

Jordan woke when the light hit his face. He was used to it by now, but it still annoyed him. His father used to wake him up like that. He'd come into the bedroom and turn on the lights while shouting "Wakey, wakey" as if it were some funny joke. What it was was blinding. Jordan sighed. He missed his dad. His parents probably thought he was dead, thanks to that clone.

Jordan quickly stuffed those thoughts back down into the dark corners of his mind. He turned to his right and found Bashir lying still and staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he was reminded of _The Lord of the Rings_, a book his mother had read to him over and over as a child. Legolas, the lone Elf of the Fellowship, could sleep with his eyes open. Well, at least that was the simplified way his mother had explained it. But Bashir didn't look like an Elf. He looked all too much like a broken man, and it seemed likely that he hadn't slept at all.

On his other side, Bormann and Simmons began to stir. Garulos was already standing. His orange hair looked fire-bright in the harsh overhead lighting. All around the barracks, men were moving, stretching, helping each other to stand. Jordan touched Bashir on the shoulder and Bashir bolted up to a sitting position. "Good morning," Jordan offered. "Sleep well?" Bashir didn't answer, but he did turn his head to meet Jordan's gaze. "Roll call is in fifteen minutes," Jordan informed him and the others from the runabout. "That's not a lot of time for the hundreds packed into this barracks. There will be ration bars outside. One per man. Don't take more than that. Some of the hungriest ones try to take more. They are beaten for it. Not by the Jem'Hadar." He paused to make sure they were all paying attention. "They are beaten by us. No man is allowed to take the life of another. Leave that to the Dominion."

Bormann and others nodded, and Jordan looked to Bashir to make sure he heard. He still didn't speak, but his eyes looked more alive than the night before. He seemed to be lucid.

Garulos offered Jordan his hand, and Jordan gladly took the help. His limbs were stiff from sleeping on the hard ground. "There will be another lottery," Garulos said, and his accent made it hard for Jordan to determine if he were making a statement or asking a question. So he just nodded. "Why do the chosen go so quietly?" Garulos went on, and this time Jordan could hear the inflection to know it was a question. "Why don't they resist?"

Jordan sighed. "Because they know the consequences. No one will get rations for a week. The last time someone resisted two hundred of us starved to death. I've never been so hungry in my life."

Garulos nodded and cast his gaze to the floor. "I see. It is noble then, to sacrifice one's will to fight so that others may live."

"It's not easy though," Jordan quietly told him, leaning close. "It's a struggle each of us hopes to never face."

The door opened and the melee began. The hungriest ones had lost their decorum and pushed hard to get through the doors to their meager ration bar. The others were hungry, too, and refused to let them through. Jordan and the others of the Bible Study stayed to the back. The runabout's crew did as well. Jordan touched Simmons on the shoulder. "You'll have your breakfast at the plant, same as lunch. Something you can drink."

Simmons's head bobbed in what might have been a nod. By the time they got out of the door, only two dozen ration bars remained. Just enough. There were no chosen in the barracks the night before.

Rations were eaten on the way to roll call, and the walk, therefore was usually quiet. Also, the knowledge of what they'd witness again that morning kept the chatter to a minimum. Two Jem'Hadar, including the Third, met Bashir as he entered the roll call grounds and escorted him to the front where another prisoner stood with Deyos. "Commander?" Bormann whispered, and Jordan looked again. Yes, it was Riker underneath the bloody, striped uniform and mussed hair.

When everyone was lined up, the counting began. Jordan concentrated on the sunrise, watching the hues of the sky change from dark blue to brilliant white. And he prayed and sang songs in his head. Two hours passed and he hardly noticed. The Jem'Hadar stopped buzzing around the prisoners, and he knew that counting was over. The lottery would begin.

It was no surprise whose numbers would be called. They were chosen the night before. But Deyos did like to mix the order, keeping the condemned in suspense and on edge. In front of him, two people to the right, Jordan spotted one of them. His shoulders shook in little movements, and a trickle of urine made a puddle at his feet. Jordan looked away.

The first three were called, and the man one row up and two over didn't move. _You have a few minutes yet,_ Jordan thought to him. He had seen more of these lotteries than he could count, but he'd never been able to decide if it was better, once chosen, to die first and not suffer the waiting, or to have that one last hour of life, agonizing as it may be.

The screams of the victims beat against him more than any Jem'Hadar fist had ever done. They wore on his spirit and nearly drowned his hope in despair. _I have Jesus_, he told himself. _I am and will be redeemed._ Over an over he repeated those two phrases and the last of the screams died out.

A stifling silence seized the gathered prisoners, as if they were all afraid to breathe. Deyos's voice rang out against the morning sky, and none of the numbers he read were Jordan's. But at least one of them was familiar, and Jafhe moved foward. As he passed, Jordan heard him whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

Jordan add his own whisper. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures."

Another voice joined, soft and low. "He leadeth me beside the still waters."

And it became a soft sea, a wave of whispers, carrying the Psalm as other believers joined in. "He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake." Jordan felt a chill slide up his legs into his spine, right up to the top of his head.

Then a tide. The voices rose, loud and full of faith. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."

Jafhe stopped in front of Deyos and finished the Psalm with just his own voice, unwavering and strong. "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

Deyos looked on with disinterest. "Why do you pray to a god you cannot see or hear?" he asked.

"I feel Him," Jafhe replied. "I hear His voice. I feel His love, and I see Him in the eyes of my brothers and sisters."

"You will feel the hook soon enough," Deyos replied. "No amount of chanting will change that."

"It needn't change," Jafhe said. "There is life beyond the hook. A better life than you can even imagine."

Deyos's face hardened. "To work!" he shouted, ending the confrontation, the roll call, and the day's lottery. Jordan only hoped he could be so strong when his own number was called. Jafhe knelt to lift one of the dead ones, and he joined the convoy that led away to the crematoria. Oddly, Riker stayed behind with Deyos, and only now did Jordan realize that the walls had been clean before the morning's lottery began.

* * *

The siren woke her. That and the light. And the cold air streaming through the ventilation duct high on the wall. Formenos yawned and sat up, stretching her arms high above her head. Then she shook as a chill reached up her spine to the top of her head.

Her clothes lay over a lone chair that sat next to a nearly bare white table. She quickly threw off the striped camp dress she'd used as a nightgown and put on the pants and jacket she'd been given by Pfenner. She heard a knock at her door as she splashed her face with water from a basin on the table. She grabbed the striped dress again to dry her face and keyed the door open.

Dr. Pfenner stood on the other side. "Good morning, Eline," he said. "May I call you Eline? I wanted to invite you to breakfast."

Formenos felt a twinge of self-consciousness. She touched her head, feeling the short bristles of her hair. Why had Pfenner singled her out anyway? Simmons would have understood the project better. But regardless of Pfenner's motives, she was hungry. "Thank you. And what shall I call you?"

"Wilhelm is my given name," he answered, smiling. "If you're ready then, follow me." He led her just one door down, and when the door opened, she was even more suspicious. Where her room was infinitely better than the dirt-floored barracks, it was Spartan in comparison to this. She had a bed, the chair and table with its basin of water, and little else. "They think the bigger quarters and comforts will entice me to work on their project," Pfenner explained, blushing, and for a moment Formenos wondered if it had worked.

Where her walls were stark white, Pfenner's walls were a comforting blue. They stood in the entry room which opened into a dining room, and she could see the table set with fruits and bread through the doorway. There were two other doors and Formenos guessed they led to a bedroom and a lavatory. His rooms also didn't seem to be as cold as hers. Compared to every other non-Dominion person in this camp, Pfenner lived in the lap of luxury.

"This way, please," Pfenner said when she didn't respond. He put a hand on her back and gently encouraged her in the direction of the dining room. He even pulled a chair out for her and pushed it in when she had sat. "It's not exactly like home," he said, taking a slice of bread from one of the platters on the table, "but it's better than those pasty ration bars."

Formenos chose a fruit that at least resembled an apple, though the orange color was a bit odd. It turned out to be much sweeter than an apple, too. "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm really not sure," he replied. "They leave the platters here every morning. It's nothing from Earth or any of the other planets I'm familiar with. It might be indigenous to this moon, I suppose."

"It's a moon?" Formenos forced her mind off the fruit. "Do you know where we are?"

"The Quarron System." Pfenner chose an oblong blue fruit. "The third moon of the fourth planet, Quaray. Not far from the D'Nexi Lines, which has the Dominion on edge. They are getting impatient."

"Let them," Formenos said, testing him.

Pfenner put the fruit down and dropped his head. "I wish I could," he said. "I'd give up my life to keep this technology from the Dominion." He looked up again, and met her gaze. "But it's not my life the failures take." There was pain in his eyes and in his voice, and she knew he was sincere.

"The pilots?" she asked.

"There used to be so many of them," Pfenner said, snatching up the fruit again. "Now there's hardly a handful. Gone. Lost to oblivion. Either destroyed or left to starve to death in some other layer of subspace with no way to contact our layer or return." He shuddered. "I can't stop imagining it. Their cold, blank stare facing me from within their EV suit, unmoving and ghostly pale. Every day we deliver one or more of them to oblivion."

The siren sounded again, but there was no blast of cold air. "Back to work," Pfenner said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. As he stood, he pocketed a few pieces of fruit and bread. He didn't look to be starving, and they had received two meals the day before, so Formenos was unsure why he'd be stashing food away. Nevertheless, she followed his example,wrapped a napkin around a piece of bread and stuffed it into one of her pockets.

They left Pfenner's quarters and took a turbolift to the lowest level of the habitat. They went down another corridor to a barred door, which Pfenner opened by keying in a code. Formenos had not seen this area before. When they'd returned to the habitat at the end of the day, they'd gone right to quarters.

The next corridor was lined with cells. These had no furniture beyond a waste reclamator, and even their walls were transparent, so that the inhabitants could not expect any privacy. Pfenner walked in front of her, with his head down and his finger pointing to each cell on the left as if he were counting. The guant-faced prisoners in the cells moved forward as they passed, watching Pfenner hopefully. Many of the cells were empty, and Formenos now knew who the prisoners were. The pilots.

They'd walked half the corridor when Pfenner stopped, and Formenos could now see a small gap in the security field near the floor of each cell. Pfenner stopped and passed the fruit to the three prisoners who occupied the cell on his right, and the bread to those on the left. The prisoners in those cells, squatted to snatch up the food, which they hungrily ate. Pfenner looked into the next cells down on either side. "Four for tomorrow," he whispered. Formenos only had one piece of bread, not enough for even one cell, so she didn't even take it from her pocket.

Formenos looked up and saw that there was another level with yet more cells, and she wondered how many other blocks there were in the habitat. And how many were empty now. Pfenner turned and once again touched her back, guiding her back toward the door. "Wilhelm?" she said as they stepped into the turbolift again.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Stop the lift." He regarded her with confusion but did as she had requested. She touched his arm. "You have to let them go."

Pfenner shook his head. "I don't understand."

"The pilots," Formenos explained, looking deep into his eyes. "You have to let the pilots go. The Dominion can't have K-Layer Subspace Concealment. The project must never succeed."

"What?" he whispered, trying to look away.

She touched his face, bringing his eyes back to hers. "They will win the war, Wilhelm. Think for a moment. Imagine it. Do you want them to win, to dominate the Alpha Quadrant? And what do you think they will do to their enemies, who dared to stand in their way. How many will die, Wilhelm, if you succeed?"

"I have thought of all that," he breathed, and he brought his hands up to grip her shoulders firmly. "I tried. I sabotaged the code in the navigational system. One of the ships--" He took a deep breath. "We could see it. Like a ghost image. But the sensors showed it had intersected with a chroniton wave. The ship kept appearing and dissappearing for days. I could see her, the pilot, burning, but the ship never blew up. Over and over it happened. The Vorta finally ordered that the base be turned forty-five degrees so it wouldn't be visible from the launch bay. That pilot is still out there somewhere. Mtingwa. That was her name."

Formenos knew the name. She'd read the report. But when Doctor Bashir wrote the report, he didn't know what actually happened to her when she reverted back to the time of her ship's explosion. Formenos closed her eyes and hoped that Mtingwa wasn't conscious of the temporal loop she was stuck in. Pfenner released her and moved away. The turbolift began to move again.

"I can't get that image out of my head," Pfenner admitted softly. "She haunts my dreams. I can't try that again. I can't keep sending them out there to die. Or worse. If the project succeeds, they will come back."

"But what will they come back to?" Formenos asked. "You have to look beyond Mtingwa to what she was fighting for."

"I can't," he breathed as the door opened onto the lab.

* * *

They were all dead this time. And fairly fresh. Gore and filth and blood didn't smell good, but rotting flesh smelled infinitely worse. And part of Doctor Julian Bashir was shocked that he could be so cynical. Each of the bodies he incinerated had been a person. A real, whole person. Somewhere they had families who missed them, families who would grieve their deaths if they ever recieved the news. They had hobbies and careers, dreams and personalities. And only his escape from Camp 371 kept him from being eligible for such a death as each of them had received.

But he found himself wondering if these bodies weren't the lucky ones. Their deaths had been long and brutal, but in the end, the torture was over. They were gone. They felt no fear, no pain, no betrayal, and he wondered why, time and time again, fate had intervened to make sure his own life continued, even if he could no longer find anything to live for.

_There is life beyond the hook,_ that one prisoner had said, and Bashir wondered what he meant. He was aware that there were still some believers among the human population of the present, but that prisoner wasn't human and he hadn't been alone. Dozens of voices had joined him in his recitation. Did they really believe in the heaven of Judeo-Christian religion? Did he? He wasn't sure. He would have said he didn't believe in ghosts, but Riker had heard Vláďa speak. And, with that acknowledgment, he realized none had come to him in this place. He saw images and people from the past, but none of them spoke to him, not like his hallucinations usually did. Well, either way, that one prisoner would find out if there was life after death this evening when he took his turn at the hook.

The Jem'Hadar kapos didn't care about philosophical ruminations, so he worked as he pondered that morning's lottery, carrying the victims to the table and dumping them into the crematorium. Each body seemed heavier than the one before, and, by the tenth, his arms were shaking from the strain. He told himself that next time he'd save the women for last. They generally weighed less. He opened the crematorium door, dumped the ashes, and went to get the next body.

By the last, he could no longer lift it, even though it was thin and frail. He hooked his arms under the man's shouders and dragged him into the small room. He practically had to climb onto the table himself in order to get the corpse up there. A thought danced in his head for a moment. He could roll himself into the incinerator. But of course, he'd have no way to lift the table to seal it. He got down and lifted the table, sealing the corpse inside the incinerator. In thirty seconds that man who had a family and dreams and hope was reduced to ash, and Bashir was allowed, in small ways, to be a doctor again.

* * *

Commander William Thomas Riker was finding himself jealous of Doctor Bashir's insomnia. He hadn't slept a wink all night and he felt it. Bashir, on the other hand, he was sure, had not so much as closed his eyes all night, but his only apparent symptoms were mental. Physically, Bashir looked no different than the day he left _Enterprise_.

Riker's body was bruised and sore from the beatings he received during the night. He hadn't eaten since the runabout, so he was very hungry. But his bout with elements the day before and all night long, made him feel clammy and feverish. And his present assignment was pushing his stomach right over the edge. He'd dry heaved at least a dozen times.

After the heinous "lottery" Bashir was sent to deal with the bodies, and Riker was, once again, left to clean up what they left behind. Only now the blood was fresh and he'd been on hand to watch the victims die. Of course, he'd already seen it with V'dara, so the surprise was gone. But that didn't lessen the horror of watching it happen over and over again.

After the last, fifteen new numbers were called, and Riker watched each face as they came forward. Some were pale and shocked, realizing only then that this would be their last day of life. Some faced the Vorta with stoic defiance. Two cried openly. And one came forward reciting a psalm and his expression was peaceful. It was almost enough to calm Riker's roiling stomach. But then they had left with Bashir, and Deyos ordered him to clean the building. All of it.

The wall was left in its raised position, open to the roll call plaza. Because of that, Riker could find little shade, and the burning sunlight cooked the blood and debris onto the walls and floor. He'd gone through three buckets of soapy water already, and his hands were stained red from wringing out the brush and mop. Sweat damped his striped uniform and dripped into his eyes.

He was allowed a short break when the temperature was at its highest. He was given two ration bars that tasted like clay. He hadn't eaten since well before their capture, but the stench of the building and the filth on his hands kept him from eating more than a bite. He was hungry but he didn't feel his stomach could handle it.

What he really wanted was a drink of water. The only water available, however, was that in his bucket, and even when it was fresh, it was soapy.

As he scrubbed he thought of the _Enterprise_ and Deanna. And he thought of his crew. None of them had come forward in the lottery at least. Simmons worried him, as did Formenos. He knew nothing of her fate since they had been separated. In fact, the only one of his crew he'd seen since that first morning was Bashir, who wasn't even officially part of his crew.

He tried thinking about Pfenner and the mission, but he also hadn't slept in more than a day. His mind swam from one thought to the next, from rational to irrational. He dreamed even while he worked, eyes open and body moving. But always his mind came back around to the nightmare of having a hook buried in his back.

* * *

Formenos found that her new status as a willing scientist gave her an added benefit beyond the retention of her tongue: freedom of movement. It wasn't complete freedom. There were still Jem'Hadar keeping watch, but they didn't try to stop her from leaving one room to get to another. Apparently being a scientist on the K-Layer project carried a high status.

Pfenner knew she wasn't really a scientist, and he didn't assign her any tasks beyond what she might have learned in her flight training. Nominally, she was put in charge of ship design. In reality, she made very few suggesions to the present design. It seemed that Pfenner had taken an interest in her even before they'd met.

Once, when they were alone in the lab, she had asked him how he knew her name and he showed her. He went to a computer terminal and logged in. Once he was in the system, he showed her how he'd hacked into more restricted areas, including the Dominion's list of prisoners of war. Formenos watched him very carefully, memorizing everything and asking questions anywhere she was confused. In the end he showed her her own file and she wasn't surprised to see a list of degrees she had never earned. Pfenner had not only viewed her records, he had changed them.

And that had given her an idea. Pfenner left to relieve himself and Formenos followed his actions to hack into the system. Besides prisoner records, Pfenner had access to nearly everything in the plant: power relays, ventilation systems, matter resequencers, transporter controls, scrap inventory, etc. She thought about simply deleting every record about the K-Layer project, but decided there were probably backups on the orbital base.

She could change the code in some small way to ensure continued failure, but she didn't want a result like Mtingwa's purgatory. She needed something that would stop the experiments altogether. She needed to destroy the plant, its computers and the orbital base. It was a tall order and she wasn't sure how to fill it.

She heard footsteps and quickly logged out. Pfenner returned and, as she pretended to work, she pondered the problem. She had freedom of movement, but she couldn't just stroll through the plant setting explosives here and there.

"Would you do me the honor," Pfenner asked, coming up behind her, "of joining me for dinner?"

Was it that time already? Her stomach rumbled in answer. In spite of what he was doing, she liked Pfenner. Still, the war--the Federation--mattered more. She turned and looked him right in the eyes. "I have a friend here. I want to talk to him."

Pfenner's eyes dropped, but he didn't seem angry or jealous. "He can't talk to you, Eline. They took his tongue."

"I know," she said, "but they didn't take mine." She smiled. "Thanks to you."

Pfenner took in a big breath. "Twenty minutes. And be discreet. They may trust me to a certain extent, but they are only taking you on my word."

Formenos nodded. "He's a crewmate. I just want to check on him, ask if he's seen Commander Riker or the others."

Pfenner nodded. "Hurry back."

Formenos didn't wait for a second invitation. She moved past him and out the door.

She found Simmons where she'd seen him before, and, though the Jem'Hadar watched her closely, they did not stop her from approaching him. He looked up with wide, questioning eyes.

"Are you alright?" she asked, not bothering to raise her voice. "I mean besides. . . ." She touched her throat.

Simmons shrugged, but offered her a slight smile. His eyes brightened when she took his hand and he felt the bread between their palms.

"You go back to the camp in the evenings?" she asked, careful to stick to 'yes or no' questions. He nodded his reply. "Then you've seen the commander?"

He shook his head and then nodded and ended with a shrug. He put one finger to his eye and nodded then touched his mouth while shaking his head. Formenos guessed what that might mean. "You've only seen him, not talked with him? So he's not in the same barracks." Simmons shrugged again. "What about the others?"

Simmons nodded and Formenos sighed. Maybe she could get some help. Four minds were better than one. She couldn't count Riker if he had no interaction with Simmons, and she wasn't at all sure of Bashir's mind. She leaned against the ship Simmons was working on, putting it and her back to the Jem'Hadar. "The target is here," she whispered. "You saw him yesterday. This is where the project is. We need to stop it. I have access to the computer. You have access to the others. I need to know how to destroy the plant and the orbital platform where they launch."

Simmons had realized she was revealing a confidence and ducked back to work as he listened. He gave the shortest of nods to show he understood. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, speaking up again so the Jem'Hadar could hear. She touched his shoulder lightly and then left him to his work.

* * *

Jafhe went in silence. He did not scream or protest. His serene expression never left his face. Jordan considered himself a man of faith, but he couldn't fathom how Jafhe had pulled that off with a hook in his back. Despite the usual horror of the lottery, the surviving prisoners might have gone back to their barracks with some hope because of Jafhe's manner of passing. But Jafhe's death was overshadowed and they left with dread instead.

Unfortunately, Jordan had found himself in the front line of the evening's lottery and so he'd had a perfect vantage point for up-close viewing. Except for the triggering incident. One man farther back decided he didn't want to die in the morning. As illogical as it was, he tried to run. Not that he had anywhere to run to. The camp was vast and the fences electrified. No one had yet escaped and it was very unlikely a single prisoner, with nothing but the clothes on his back would do any better. Of course, he was caught.

Just in case it wasn't bad enough that the punishment for resistance was a week without rations for the entire camp, Deyos gave them a choice. Actually, he gave the choice to Bashir, who stood alone now that Riker had been put with the rest of the camp. One week without rations for the entire camp, or the man would be stoned to death.

"A historical form of capital punishment from your Earth, I believe," Deyos had said. "One stone for each man and woman in this camp, and if even one person doesn't throw it, you will forfeit our agreement. Which shall it be, Doctor?"

And so once again, Bashir had to choose to kill someone. If a man could die and yet keep breathing, Deyos had accomplished it with Bashir. To make matters worse, the Jem'Hadar brought the whimpering escapee to stand in front of him so that Bashir could get a good look. He pleaded, and Bashir froze. From back in the gathered camp, the chant began, "Stone, stone, stone." Jordan understood that, and he chanted along, because he knew Bashir didn't understand. He'd need the help. One man for two hundred.

* * *

Julian Bashir stood in front of the quivering prisoner. Tears ran down the man's face; he'd lost control of his bladder in his fear. "Please," he begged. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

Deyos raised a hand to dismiss him and stepped between them. "The choice is no longer yours. That privilege is for our reknowned Doctor Bashir. One week without rations, or stoning. Yours will, of course, be the first stone."

_Noch nicht,_ Bashir heard, once again seeing Scharführer Heiler before him. "_Und du nicht._"

"Stone, stone, stone," the crowd droned. A week without rations. Bashir looked at their faces: gaunt, pale, starving. They'd starve.

"Oh, it's not that easy, Herr Engländer." Heiler had a gun and she turned it from his temple to face the crowd. "I will shoot one of them."

"Choose," ordered Heiler. Or was it Deyos? "How many will die in one week, do you think?"

She pulled the trigger and Piotr collapsed to the ground. Bashir collapsed, too, and fell to his knees. "Stone," he breathed.

"I'm sorry," Heiler said, above him. "I didn't hear you."

Another shot rang out and another man fell. "Stone!" Bashir choked out. "Stone him."


	5. Chapter Fifteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fifteen**

There are times, Riker thought, when people could be so naive. Things got bad and they would think, 'Well, this is the worst it could be.' And then someone somewhere would come along with a cruel streak and show them their folly. Riker had thought he'd seen horror. He'd seen the Borg and what they could do to a sentient being. He'd seen murder. He'd seen thousands of corpses rotting in an underground cave. He'd seen people dying slowly, three at a time, in the lottery. He had thought it couldn't get any worse.

Tomorrow he would help to stone a man.

Jordan himself had found Riker in the aftermath of the lottery and led him to the barracks. "He made the right choice," he said. Riker had just looked at him. He couldn't speak. "I know it doesn't feel good, but he did the right thing. It's one man. Hundreds more could have died without rations for a week."

Riker nodded his agreement, on both counts. It didn't feel good. It felt horrible. But looking at the faces around him, he knew the prisoners were barely surviving on the rations they had.

"That is why they don't resist," Garulos said. He was leaning against the wall next to Riker. They were waiting for Simmons and Bormann. Jordan left them to sit with a group in the corner after telling him that Bashir would be back later.

"Bible study," Garulos said, nodding toward the group in the corner. "The calm one was a missionary."

"Missionary?" Riker asked, but he didn't really care for an answer. Garulos didn't bother giving one.

"Why does it always seem they choose the guy standing next to me?" Bormann asked as he found them. Simmons was with him.

Riker stood up to offer them a place to sit. Bormann looked alright. Simmons, though, had a reddish brown stain on the front of his shirt. "Did they?" he asked.

Simmons nodded. Then he pushed Riker back to make room on the floor. He put his finger into the dirt and Riker could barely make out what he wrote as there wasn't a lot of light.

'Plant,' his fingers spelled. He brushed that away and wrote again. 'Pf,' and then 'Formenos'.

Returning one's mind to a mission had a way of distracting one from unpleasant circumstances, and this was no exception. 'Destroy' wrote Simmons before he wiped it away. 'K,' 'plant,' 'orbital,' 'help Form.'

Formenos had been assigned to the plant. Pfenner was there, working on K-Layer, and Formenos needed help to destroy the plant and an orbital station.

"That's a tall order," Riker told him. "How do you know? How did she talk to you?"

Simmons pointed to his mouth. 'Pf's pet,' he wrote on the ground. 'Access,' 'computer.'

"She has computer access?!" Bormann exclaimed, but only in a whisper. "How'd she manage that in just two days?"

Riker held up a hand to dismiss the question. It didn't matter how she had the access. They needed to do what she asked.

"I don't suppose it's possible to sneak explosives in?" Garulos asked.

'From?' Simmons asked.

"Good point," Riker replied. "We don't have anything to offer except our minds."

"And one of our best minds is rotting in the crematorium right now," Bormann put in.

"I don't know that I'd categorize it as rotting, Lieutenant," Riker corrected.

Bormann dropped his eyes. "Sorry, sir."

"I don't think he was entirely stable when they put him aboard our runabout," Riker admitted. "And I think Deyos is doing everything he can to push him over the edge. But maybe we can help him and Formenos at the same time. Maybe we can get him to focus on this dilemma."

"Sir," Garulos said. "What is going on with him? I can understand not telling us on _Enterprise_, but I think here we should know."

Riker sighed and rubbed his chin. The stubble growing there scratched at his filthy hands. "He was at Auschwitz once. I'll keep it simple and say he did not have a good time. This place looks like Auschwitz. There are a lot of similarities."

"I take it you're not talking about the museum," Bormann suggested. "So he's having flashbacks?"

Riker nodded. "And that group we discussed on the runabout, they abducted him on multiple occasions, tried to recruit him, and manipulated him into doing what they wanted. They marooned him. We found him a few weeks back."

"Six months of solitary confinement," Garulos said, nodding himself. "And considering how this group has treated us, setting us up for capture. . . ." He let those thoughts trail off.

"Well, he has one advantage now," Bormann said, smiling wickedly.

"What's that?" Riker asked.

"He's not the worse smelling prisoner anymore," Bormann replied. "Sir."

Riker smirked himself. "Very funny. Now let's look into Formenos's problem so we have something to present to him when he returns."

* * *

Bashir lifted the man onto the table and began to strip the clothes from him. The last one had been alive, like before. Snapping his neck was easier this time. Killing was getting easier and it frightened him. This one was the believer. And as Bashir looked at his face, he noticed that he was no longer gaunt. His cheeks were full, his limbs well-muscled. If not for the trickle of blood from his lips, Bashir would have thought the man alive.

"You know now," he told the man, knowing he couldn't hear. "So is it true?"

The man, of course, didn't answer, and Bashir lifted the table and sealed the crematoria door. In a few seconds, the man's body was gone.

Beyond that, he had no other thoughts. _Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it. Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it._ Over and over. He didn't smell the stench of their blood. He didn't feel the weight of the corpses. He only moved. _Carry the body, undress it, close it, burn it._ He'd been here before, and somehow, in the years and months between he'd managed to think there was a reason to live again. Heiler laughed at him from the corner of the room.

* * *

Cloak or no cloak, the _Defiant_ could not get behind the D'Nexi Lines. She could only go through them. And to go through them, she had to fight. About six hundred Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan ships had reached the D'Nexi Lines today to reinforce the Klingon forces that had been holding the Lines for the last two weeks. The Dominion had been ready for them. Not a half hour after the fleet arrived, eight hundred Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships swooped in to face them and the battle had been raging ever since with barely a let up. Each cubic meter of space was fought over, ship for ship.

Barrage after barrage slammed into the _Defiant_, but the shields and the armor below them held. Casualty reports were streaming in. The _Defiant_ had taken two casualties so far, both wounded, none dead. She was lucky. The Allied fleet had lost seventeen ships already, and the battle had only started a few hours before. The Dominion, thankfully, had lost twenty. But the odds were still tight. Starfleet Command was already trying to divert more ships to the Lines, but there weren't enough ships around to divert. That said, the Lines were holding and the allies were even managing to push them back a bit.

* * *

Jordan finished the Bible Study just as Bashir entered the barracks. As he had done the night before, he pushed his way to the front to guide him back to his crewmates. Bashir had looked wildly around the room last night. Tonight he didn't raise his eyes from the floor as he let Jordan lead him to the others. Riker stood when they arrived.

"Doctor?" he asked. Bashir didn't move or raise his eyes. Riker grabbed his shoulders with both hands. "Julian, look at me." It took a little shake but Bashir did finally look up. "That's better," Riker said as he released the doctor. "We need your help." He pointed to the ground in front of Simmons. "Sit here. Mr. Jordan, we could probably use your help as well."

They all sat in a tight circle and Riker laid out the problem. The last crewmate, a woman named Formenos had been assigned to the plant. But someone named Pfenner there took her on as a favorite. She kept her tongue and had somehow gained access to a computer. The plant was developing a dangerous new technology, and Formenos wanted to stop it. She just didn't know how.

As bad as the evening had been, Jordan relished the thought of a mission to stimulate his mind--and perhaps damage the enemy's war efforts. They conspired half the night and came up with a brilliant plan: a virus. If only they could carry it out. Right now they didn't even know how to tell Formenos their plan, let alone the details on how to carry it out. Simmons had smuggled a napkin out of the plant, but none of them could imagine how they would write on it. In the end, knowing morning would come soon and a long day would follow it, Riker ordered them to get some sleep.

* * *

Riker and Jordan were asleep on either side of him, but Bashir couldn't sleep. Not that he didn't want to. He even tried closing his eyes, resigning himself to whatever should come in the night. Still, he could not rid himself of the condemned man's face. He could already feel the weight of the stone in his hand.

He opened his eyes when he felt the soft tingle of a transport near his feet. He was surprised to see a young a woman with short, dark hair smiling down at him. She was dressed in black just as Sloan often wore. As he sat up, she knelt down and a bit of hair fell onto her forehead. She brushed it back then pointed to the napkin by Riker's head.

Bashir picked it up but was wary of giving it to her. She was either a changeling or Section 31. There was nothing on the napkin, however, as they'd yet to decide how they might compose a virus onto it. She motioned that he should give it to her. He passied it over and she placed another napkin in his hand. It was very dark, but he could just make out some dark figures on its fold.

"You know, things didn't quite turn out as we planned," she whispered. She gave him a sad smile. "We thought they'd put that mind of yours to work. Still the mission is going well in other fronts." She nodded toward the napkin and then stood. The transport took her almost immediately.

Bashir held up the napkin, trying to turn it into one of the wan shafts of light from outside. He knew now who the woman was. He didn't close his eyes again for the rest of the night.

When Riker woke up, Bashir showed him the napkin with its tiny print detailing a virus that would do everything they'd planned the night before.

"How did you. . . ?" Riker tried to ask, looking at the small square of paper in his hands.

"I didn't," Bashir admitted. "We had a visitor last night. Thirty-one."

"I'd say so," Riker said, "but if they could do this, why would they need you?"

Bashir just shrugged. "They underestimated the Dominion. Thought they'd put me to work with Pfenner."

* * *

They didn't speak for a few minutes and Riker was surprised by Bashir's next question. "Do you still think I'm arrogant?"

Riker watched him, looking for any suggestion of aggression on his face. He didn't find it. "You care what I think?

"It's not that I didn't before," Bashir replied. "It didn't matter. You were temporary. I was going back to DS9."

Riker nodded. "I wouldn't be your commanding officer." He leaned back and thought about Bashir's question for a moment. "No. I don't think you're arrogant."

"Arrogant means you think of yourself more than others," Bashir said. "I'm more arrogant now than I ever was before. People thought I was arrogant before, but I thought of myself as less than all of them."

"And now?" Riker wanted to keep him talking. And he really wanted to know how Bashir thought of himself. He didn't think he'd heard this many words from Bashir since they came to this camp.

"And now," Bashir went on, "I'm all that there is. I'm the only one I can really trust because I'm the only one I can control. Everyone else has the potential to betray. They are unpredictable."

That was heavy but it had an amount of logic to it. "To a certain extent," Riker countered, "you should be able to predict based on previous actions and a person's character."

"Like with Captain Sisko and the order he gave?" Bashir challenged. His voice, however, remained calm and somewhat distant. "And Starfleet Command who backed him up? The Federation Council which turns a blind eye to Section 31? Like a certain admiral who lied to me, used me?"

"Good point," Riker conceded. "Makes it hard to trust, I suppose. But you trusted Data."

Bashir nodded and rested his head against the wall again. "Data is a machine. A wondrous machine, but a machine. He's programmed to be moral. And barring someone tampering with that programming, he'll do the right thing."

Riker felt he needed to counter that, both for Bashir and for Data. Data could base a lot of his personality and choices on programming, but not everything could come down to 1's and 0's. He had his ethical dilemmas from time to time. Bashir needed to know that. "There was this man, Kivas Fajo," he said, "a collector of unique things. He captured Data and kept him by threatening to harm someone else with a very painful weapon. Data eventually convinced Fajo's assistant to help him escape, but Fajo used that weapon on her. Data took the weapon from him, but Fajo taunted him with his programming. He knew Data couldn't kill him. Data had to decide then: Could he kill Fajo or stay and let Fajo continue threatening and killing people to keep him there? He was saved from that choice by the transporter, but Geordi caught the discharging weapon in the beam and deactivated it. Data did not say that he had fired it. He let us believe it was a malfunction but I have my doubts."

Bashir looked thoughtful then closed his eyes. "I had a choice once. I could take the whip and beat this poor man who'd been caught doing something or I could watch as every man in my kommando was shot in the head. I thought the world would have to come to end, the universe would have to rip itself apart. It was an impossible choice. But I made it."

He opened his eyes again and turned to face Riker. "I'm not proud of beating him, certainly not of killing him. It ripped a piece of my soul from me. I would have died myself but she wouldn't turn the gun on me. Given those two horrible choices--to obey and kill a man, or to disobey and let twenty, thirty die--I made the right one. So did Data."

Riker nodded, "I agree, but I don't think it had anything to do with his programming."

Bashir turned his face to the crowded room again and was quiet for awhile. Riker wondered what he was thinking.

Finally he spoke. "I learned something in Auschwitz: Dying is easy. Living is hard."

Riker didn't believe that, not even here. Life was not always easy but it was better than death. Bashir had been trying to die before he was transported onto the runabout, but he wasn't dead yet. Death was obviously harder than he thought.

"Once this war is over," he told him, "we should have a drink and discuss that again. I think your perspective may change a bit." Bashir didn't answer and Riker guessed he was still being morose. "Did you eat anything yesterday?" he asked.

"When?" Bashir asked in return.

"Breakfast or lunch," Riker answered. "You need to eat. The ration bars taste awful, but at least they're something."

The door opened and Bashir was saved from having to reply by the gruesome reality of what was to come.

On the one hand, Riker was thankful for Section 31's gift. They could accomplish their mission--and more--and maybe get out of this camp. But on the other, having the puzzle solved for them had lost them the opportunity to reach Bashir. For a moment he had been coherent, and Riker had tried to take advantage of that moment of lucidity to get him to eat. He was sure Bashir had neither slept nor eaten since he had left DS Nine. Bashir's enhancements were likely a factor in his endurance, but even now his hands were beginning to shake and his face was taking on an unhealthy pallor.

As the prisoners stood, Riker realized he was using Bashir as a way to cope. He could practically hear Deanna's voice telling him as much. If he worried about Bashir, he didn't have to worry about what was going to happen this morning.

Deyos himself stepped through the door flanked by Bashir's near-constant shadows: the Jem'Hadar Third and his nondescript companion. They pushed their way through the crowd to Bashir's side, took his arms, and pulled him toward the door.

Though he didn't relish the idea of stoning a man to death, Riker hurried after them. When Bashir and his escorts reached Deyos, the Vorta spun on his heels and led them outside. Instead of piles of ration bars waiting on the ground, there were only stones this morning.

"Need I remind you not to try any tricks, Doctor?" Deyos asked. "You could kill him with one stone and a sufficient knowledge of anatomy. But that would rob your colleagues of their usefulness. If he dies too quickly, I can still cut rations."

Bashir didn't say anything, even when Deyos handed him one of the larger stones in the pile. He didn't even look up. Deyos smirked and Riker found himself fantasing about killing that Vorta in a slow and extremely painful way. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Jordan behind him.

"He's not just punishing Bashir," he whispered. "He's trying to break us all."

Garulos was with him. "No prisoner is allowed to take the life of another."

Jordan nodded. "And until today, that code has not been broken."

Riker nodded and picked up his own stone and joined the line that was forming behind Deyos and Bashir. "And if we all should accidentally miss?"

"Don't underestimate Deyos," Jordan warned. "He hasn't bluffed yet. I don't think he's bluffing now. He could starve half this camp in a week."

Deyos himself led them to the far side of the roll call grounds where the condemned prisoner was tied between two posts. Jem'Hadar guards formed everyone into lines. Unlike other days, there was no chatter among the prisoners. The women were marched in and put in a line just beside the men. Riker looked for Formenos but couldn't see her. He knew the plant workers stood together at roll call but he couldn't tell this morning who was assigned to the plant and who was not.

"After throwing your stone," Deyos announced to the gathered prisoners, "proceed to roll call. Now the good Doctor Bashir will grace us with the first stone."

Past Bashir's shoulder, Riker could see the poor man who was about to die pull hard against his bonds. He wept and shook his head. Bashir, with so blank an expression he might have been a robot, stepped forward one step and held his stone up toward the man, like a baseball player on a pitcher's mound. He pulled his arm back and threw, catching the man directly in the throat. So hard was the shot that the man fell backwards and only the ropes on his wrist kept him upright. He coughed and gasped for breath as a trickle of bright red blood trailed down his neck.

Deyos stopped Bashir from walking away. "I thought we discussed this," he said. "I can still cut their rations. How many will die, do you think, because of your pity?"

"He isn't dead," Bashir replied.

Coughing blood between his lips, the condemned man stood again.

"How fortunate," Deyos retorted, stepping out of the way. He turned to the first woman in line. "Madam, if you will. And make sure you hit him."

She threw her stone, hitting the man in the leg. He stumbled but choked out a cry of pain. Riker was next, and he just couldn't do it. Bashir, he could understand. Bashir wasn't in his right mind anymore. Yet still, it was obvious that the stone to the throat was meant to kill the man quickly, though not immediately. Bashir had that knowledge of anatomy. He knew just where to throw. Riker didn't have that advantage.

"Throw it, Commander," Deyos ordered. "Throw it or you can join him and I'll still cut their rations."

Riker felt his knees begin to buckle. This was impossible. And yet he couldn't let all the prisoners suffer for this one man's very understandable wish to live.

"We're waiting," Deyos said, stepping closer.

Telling himself he only held a snowball, Riker threw, and his stone contacted solidly with the man's stomach. The man hunched forward as he began coughing again. His chin and chest were red from the blood.

Feeling rather nauseous and suddenly exhausted, Riker turned away from the man and followed after Bashir. They were led back to the roll call grounds and lined up in the usual ranks. Riker felt every thunk of stone against the man behind him. He kept walking, trying to concentrate on the napkin that Simmons carried and not what he'd just done. Jordan joined them, with Garulos not far behind. Simmons came next and stood between Garulos and Bormann. So even the plant workers were part of the stoning.

It took two hours for the stoning to end, though the victim's cries had turned to whimpers within the first hour. Riker's legs were already numb by the time the last man was lined up for roll call. Deyos, however, did not appear interested in altering the routine any more than he already had. The count went on, and so did the lottery. Fifteen people hung--one to replace the stoned man--and fifteen new prisoners were chosen to die that evening. And Bormann was one of them.

* * *

Formenos waited anxiously for the prisoners from the camp to arrive. She went with Pfenner to the lift and tried not to look as if she was anxious. She worried the Vorta or Jem'Hadar there would see through her deception. Only Pfenner knew she was not who she claimed to be.

The workers finally began to stream in. "Deyos kept you longer than usual," the Vorta said. "You're behind schedule. There will be no meal breaks today. You'll need those to make your quota."

The group, already looking forlorn, didn't so much as groan. And of course, no one spoke to tell why they were late. One by one, they opened their mouths, showing their lack of tongues to ensure that no other prisoners had infiltrated their ranks. Pfenner walked behind the Vorta, and Formenos walked behind him. Simmons turned his eyes to her as the Vorta examined him, and when the Vorta moved on, he nodded once. Formenos only hoped that nod was meant for her.

With the simple inspection finished, the lift began to rise. Simmons moved another prisoner aside so that his side of the rank was nearest to her. The lift stopped and the workers filed out. Simmons was too close however and ran into Formenos. And Formenos had the sense to fall.

Simmons frantically held out a hand to say he was sorry, and used the other to grab her arm and help her up. One finger tapped against the inside of her arm, and Formenos clamped her arm hard to her side. Once she was on her feet, one of the Jem'Hadar guards grabbed Simmons and clubbed him to the ground.

"He can't work," Pfenner snapped, joining in the scene, "if you knock him senseless. You're fine, aren't you, Eline?"

That last question to her was softer, as if he sincerely cared. "Yes, I'm fine," she confirmed. "Accidents happen."

One of the other workers helped Simmons up and they went on to their stations. Pfenner and Formenos left the Vorta behind and took another lift to the lab. Pfenner went to his console and began to work. Formenos excused herself, telling him that she needed to use the lavatory. Once there she lifted her arm and found the napkin that had held the bread she'd given to Simmons. Only what it held now was worth far more than a piece of bread. She didn't understand it all, but she knew what to do with it. It was a program. She had to get to a terminal, somewhere where not even Pfenner would see her work. Everything she needed was laid out on that small bit of soft paper in impossibly fine print. She tucked the napkin into a pocket and hurried back to the lab.

Pfenner grabbed her by the arms as soon as she entered. "Eline!" he exclaimed. "I think I've found it!"

Formenos shook her head. "Found what?"

"The K-Layer!" he said, pulling her over to his console. "I was nearly there last time. . . ."

He rattled on for another twenty minutes but Formenos barely heard. _Not today,_ she thought. _Not today!_ She had a plan, yes, but no guarantee she could pull it off. She didn't know if she could get a terminal. Now all she had was today. Today, they would test the K-Layer again. And if it proved successful, the Dominion would spread the technology to all their forces in the Alpha Quadrant. She had only this one day to stop them.

". . . test scheduled for 1800 hours," Pfenner was saying. "We have a thousand calculations and simulations to run before then, but I'm sure it will work. The pilot will come home this time." Then he stopped short, and really looked at her for the first time that day. "You don't share my enthusiasm," he surmised.

"This isn't home," she told him. "That pilot will never see home, whether he makes it back here or not."

Pfenner rubbed his chin as he nodded. "But he'll be alive, Eline. There will be no more blood on my hands."

_There will be so much, you'll never wash away the stain,_ she thought. She couldn't let that happen. Not to him, and not to the Federation. She had taken an oath when she joined Starfleet.

"I'll need your help on the simulations," Pfenner told her. "I know you don't approve of this. But it's the only choice we've got right now."

_And they'll kill you when they have what they want,_ she thought again. She nodded though, trying hard to appear resigned and not determined. Simulations were run from a terminal.

* * *

Bormann couldn't feel his legs. He stumbled against the weight of the body he was carrying. That, and the realization that this was his last day to live. Three days. They'd only been in the camp three days and still his number had come up. He felt trapped in a nightmare and kept hoping he'd wake up.

Sticky blood ran down his shirt and smeared his cheek, but he hardly noticed. By the end of the day, someone else would be carrying him. Before that, he would be impaled upon a large metal hook in front of his fellow prisoners.

Bashir walked alongside the line of body-carriers like some kind of automaton, head down, feet barely lifting. Bormann thought he looked defeated, and he finally understood. Maybe Bashir was better off that way, lost in something other than this dreadful reality. Then he remembered what Riker had said. It was no happy place where the doctor was. But Bormann had to wonder if it was worse than what they faced now.

They were led to a part of camp Bormann had never seen, past an electrified gate. The Jem'Hadar directed them to stack the bodies against a short building. As Bormann dropped his load, he felt a hand on his arm to help him up.

"I'd trade you places if I could," Bashir whispered.

Bormann just nodded as the Jem'Hadar led him away. He believed him. Bashir was defeated, ready to leave this life behind.

Bormann's heart pounded hard in his chest. He wasn't ready. Every instinct he had said to fight, to run. No surrender. But he'd seen all too well what that could mean. Stoning sounded worse than the hook. And if Deyos was into ancient Earth capital punishments, he might choose something even more agonizing and slow.

It was not fair, not right. How could this have happened? If Section 31 got them captured, why didn't they get them out before this happened? They orchestrated everything else so well. How could they just sit and watch Federation prisoners killed day after day in this place?

The Jem'Hadar deposited him in front of the first building he was meant to clean. Barlu was waiting there with supplies. He'd seen Barlu in the kommando before, but he hadn't actually worked with him yet.

"Bormann, isn't it?" Barlu asked, as he handed him a bucket and rag.

Bormann just nodded. He didn't feel like talking.

Barlu, though, apparently did. "I imagine it's a hard time for you. They do that on purpose. Put you through the wringer up here--" He pointed to his head. "--before they hurt you physically."

Bormann nodded again.

"So are you going to let them?"

Bormann stopped scrubbing and faced the older man. "What?" he asked, utterly perplexed. "It's not like I have a choice. You saw what happened this morning."

"You do have a choice," Barlu said, stopping his work, too. "Not about the hook, but about the wringer."

"What _are_ you talking about?" Bormann challenged. Barlu's eyes met his and though it felt unusual to really look at someone eye to eye, Bormann couldn't look away.

"You have less than a day to live, Mr. Bormann," Barlu said. "How are you going to live it? Are you going to die slowly though self-pity? Or are you going to spend this time looking back on the joys of your life?"

Bormann's breath quickened but he still couldn't let go of those eyes. "I'm scared," he confessed. "I don't want to die."

Barlu put his hand on Bormann's shoulder. "We are all going to die. Some in peace and some in pain. Some in war. Some in murder. Or accidents or suicides. We all die. Death is just one part of life. You only have a few hours left. Maybe I only have a day or only a minute. I'm not going to spend my time wallowing in death. What do you want to do with yours?"

* * *

_They killed him,_ Bashir told himself, repeating words Kira had once told him. _They killed him. They just used our hands._

But looking down at the bruised and misshapen body in front of him, he couldn't make himself believe it. Heiler had known how to make him suffer. She had made him beat a man to death. Deyos, apparently, knew it, too. He was a doctor, sworn to heal and not to harm. By his nature, he fought death and now he was made to serve it. And he did so without struggle. He didn't fight it. He did what he was told.

Fighting it was impossible. He learned that from Heiler. Evil had no boundaries, no rules of right and wrong. And it was all around him. It was winning.

He lifted the door and incinerated the body, and again he thought about climbing in himself. He had meant what he said to Bormann. Almost. While he would welcome death, he did not want to die like the victims of the lottery. Pain and suffering were two of the main reasons he wanted out of this life. Avoiding pain as best he could had become his only reason to keep on living.

But pain had become a constant. It had _hurt_ to stone that man. Deyos had counted on that just as much as Heiler had. His back and arms ached from the strain of lifting the bodies. Every breath hurt.

And he was tired. He was tired of fighting, tired of thinking, tired of breathing. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and leave this and all worlds far behind. Riker chided at him to sleep and eat, but he couldn't do either. His stomach ached but he could not bring himself to eat even one ration bar. Nor could he close his eyes and rest his mind for more than a few seconds at a time.

He returned to the pile of bodies, under the watchful eyes of his kapos. Five more to go, he thought and wished he would stop thinking altogether.

* * *

Riker struggled to keep the bile in his stomach. The gore around him was no more than during other days, but on other days his crew were not chosen to die. Riker had found it easy, in these last few days, to think his crewmen were safe enough. Given, Bashir's sanity was falling into question and Simmons had lost his tongue, but otherwise no one had been physically threatened. Their work details, while demanding, were not overly dangerous and the lottery had passed them by.

Riker knew Section 31 had led them to this place, but despite what Bashir had said about them, he had still had faith that, if they had sent them to get captured, they would get them out once their mission was accomplished. It nearly was accomplished. Section 31 had even helped in that. Why then would they allow the Dominion to kill Bormann?

Maybe there was still hope. Formenos had the virus. If she initiated it soon, Section 31 could still whisk them away before the evening's lottery.

But where would that leave all these other prisoners? They were no less worthy of rescue than Riker and his crew. It was just too overwhelming to think of the thousands of prisoners held here. It threatened to push him to the edge--like Bashir. All he could manage to hold onto were those closest to him here: his crew and Bashir. And Jordan. He had only known Jordan for three days, but he had become, in a way, their guide in this abyss. He had no more guarantee of survival than anyone else, less even than Bashir. He simply knew the way and cared enough to share it with them. That made six. He could handle six.

Too soon he'd have only five. Death was a part of war and, while it still hurt, it was at least expected that some would die in battle. But this wasn't war. In battle, Bormann would have a chance, even if only a small one. This was murder, brutal and slow, with the added torture of having to wait, knowing it was coming.

Not even war was supposed to be like this.

Something knocked him hard in the back and Riker's face was pushed into the bloody wall. "Work, human!" a voice snarled behind him. "This room must be clean by roll call!"

Riker had to bite back the bile in his throat again. Using his sleeve, he wiped some of the grime from his face and then bent back to his work, realizing that he was being naive again. He had thought that nothing could be worse than the stoning. He had to stop thinking things like that.

* * *

Formenos finished entering the data just before lunch. She prayed to whatever might be listening that the virus would work. That's what it was. She realized it as she entered the data. A virus. It would take over the environmental systems, flooding the entire plant with icarin gas. A single spark would then set off an enormous explosion. And of course, before all that happened, the virus would upload itself to the orbital platform and do the same there. Icarin gas was odorless and colorless, but highly flammable. A part of her shuddered to think about the pilots and other prisoner workers who might die in the explosions, but she was firm in her convictions. It was more important to stop the project or millions would die. Still, she herself had to get out. She couldn't warn any others without raising suspicions but she wanted to report back to Commander Riker before she was found and punished. And she was sure she would be found and punished. There really wasn't anywhere to run.

Their mission was to find out if Pfenner was a traitor and she wanted the record to be straight on that account. He, like the others would die in the explosion, and she felt he deserved to not have his memory marred by accusations of treason. He wasn't treasonous, just soft-hearted. He was punishing himself for Mtingwa and the others. He couldn't see that the project's success meant the loss of the war. So he helped the Dominion because his conscience wouldn't let those pilots die for nothing.

Tonight, they would all die. But not for nothing.

* * *

Barlu listened to him all day as he droned on and on about his family, his sister, his graduation from Starfleet Academy, his childhood pets. He recounted his life, the happy times. Barlu was right. That was how he wanted to spend his last hours. Living instead of dying. Before Barlu had cornered him with that question, his death had loomed so large that he could see nothing else. Now the sky was getting darker. There were only two building left to clean. His time was running out.

"That hook isn't the end of things, you know."

Bormann smiled and shook his head. He'd known that was coming. Before he might have been offended, but not now. Barlu had been there for him, a total stranger. He owed him. What could it hurt to listen? "You believe in an afterlife," he stated.

Barlu nodded. "For all of us. Even the Dominion."

"Why would you want an afterlife with them?" Bormann asked as he dipped his rag and started washing the wall.

"It's not about wanting it," Barlu answered. "We all get an afterlife whether we want one or not. Some of us are going to have a pleasant one. Some of us not."

"Hell?" Bormann asked, dropping the rag back into the bucket. "Isn't that what this is?"

Barlu didn't back down. "This is a picnic by comparison."

"You really believe that? What is it, a lake of fire?"

"Yes, I really believe it." Barlu bent down and picked up his own bucket. "And you should, too. What have you got to lose?"

"Dignity, maybe." Bormann thought about what the others would think if he suddenly announced he believed in this Christian stuff.

"Do you think Jafhe died without it?"

Jafhe. The missionary. Bormann shook his head. "He was all dignity."

"Yes, and do you know why?"

Bormann thought about that. What had made Jafhe so dignified? "No fear," he said. "He had no fear."

"And you know why he wasn't afraid."

Bormann nodded. "He believed he was going to heaven."

Barlu nodded. "The afterlife. The pleasant one. He had faith. And that faith didn't fail him. You saw that."

"But why?" Bormann asked as he went back to work. "Why would you believe all that? Most humans left that stuff behind centuries ago."

"I know." Barlu crossed over to the opposite wall and dipped his rag again. "It's some of the things Jesus commanded that sealed the deal for me. I mean, if I was going to make up a religion so convincing that millions would convert to it for centuries--even millenia--I'd make it a little easier, something everyone could do. But He commanded things that go against our nature: 'Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.' Now who in their right minds would want to love their enemies? Love the Jem'Hadar? Or our head Vorta? That tells me these twelve guys didn't just sit down around a fire and concoct a religion out of thin air."

Bormann's brow furrowed at that. Barlu had a point. "So how do you do it? How do you love the Jem'Hadar?"

"With difficulty," Barlu answered quickly, chuckling a bit. "Really, I guess I just try to look at them as God sees them. They were his creatures once. They were taken and corrupted, genetically engineered to take away their freedom of choice. They have no choice but to worship the Founders. It's not their fault they are the way they are. Just think, we are prisoners here. They take our freedom and even our lives. But the one thing they are never able to take away is choice. We can choose to believe whatever we want. The Jem'Hadar can't. The Founders have condemned them.

"And think about our commandant. He's a Vorta. They helped the changlings once and in their gratitude the Founders took not only their ability to choose but their ability to taste, to see and appreciate beauty, even to be unique. If something happens to this Deyos, there's another one in a can somewhere. Can you imagine it? He'll never hear a symphony and get lost in the harmony and melody. He'll never taste Idanian spice pudding. He'll never fall in love. And if he dies, no one will bother with his memory. They'll just replace him and be done with it. No one misses a Vorta. No one misses a Jem'Hadar. In that, my friend, we are rich."

Bormann paused in his cleaning. "I've never thought of it like that."

"Because it's not in our nature to do so," Barlu said. "That's why I believe. I can think of it like that because for all my faults, God looks at me like that. He thought I was worth dying for."

Worth dying for. Bormann knew with certainty that he was going to die, but he wondered now what he had that was worth dying for. He had his family but they were safe enough at home now. There was the war, but he wouldn't be dying in battle or in a heroic rescue of others. What was he dying for?

* * *

The clinic was busy. A lot of hands had been cut on the stones. Doctor Bashir cleaned them as best he could and bandaged them up before sending their owners back out to work. There were a few more serious injuries: chemical burns, sprained joints, tool cuts. It was a much more relaxing and rewarding task to patch them up than it was to burn their bodies. But he resented it. It was another ploy to lure him back to life. Heiler had done it. He had given up and she put him in the hospital, let him bandage some wounds, let him feel--in some small way--like a doctor again. It felt good, and he didn't want to feel good. He didn't want to feel.

A woman came in holding her left arm in her right hand. Blood slipped between her fingers to drip onto the floor. Bashir sat her down and poured water over her cut. It wasn't even sterile water. He was hardly saving her from infection, considering the filth they all had to work in. It was a wonder he hadn't seen any gangrene yet. And what did it matter anyway. He would probably be burning her corpse in the next day or two.

She was the last one. The sun was setting outside, and the kapos pounded the door. He stood up and stretched his back for a moment and stared at his hands. The hands of a healer once, but they'd be burning Bormann tonight.

He found Riker at the front of the lines, as usual. He never had to go far to roll call. The hanging room was stark white again, a tribute to his kapos more than to him. Riker looked pale in the darkening light. Bashir couldn't see Bormann. He didn't want to see Bormann.

By the time the kapos had finished counting, Bashir's legs had gone numb and his back was aching again. Deyos called out three numbers, and the first victims were put on the hooks. Bashir tried to tune out the sound of the hook passing through flesh, the cries of the dying. The next three were called, and they removed the first from the hooks only to be placed on them themselves. Bashir noticed that one of the bodies was still twitching. Another neck to break if she didn't die by the time they reached the crematoria.

The next three numbers were called, and this time Bormann stepped forward from somewhere near the back. Bashir watched him as he waited for his turn to die. His whole body quivered, but his eyes were closed and his lips moved in small movements. When it was time to take down the body, he moved forward without shaking. He pulled the body down and placed it into the pile near Bashir. "Don't let them kill your spirit, Doctor," he whispered. "You still have choice." Then he stepped back and was lifted by two Jem'Hadar onto the hook. Bashir couldn't tune out the sounds then. Bormann clenched his teeth in an effort not to scream, but the sound was ripped from him regardless. "Jesus!" he cried. "I choose Jesus!"

And at that the chanting started again, though it was too quiet for Bashir to hear the words. Bormann had become a believer. Twenty minutes dragged by, and still he didn't die. He cried out his hurt, but kept saying "Jesus" over and over again. And then he did something odd. He looked out at the gathered prisoners before him and held out his hand. And he smiled. His hand and head dropped and he stopped moving altogether.

The next three stepped up and took him and the other two down. Then they went up, and the cycle continued, until the morning's victims were chosen and the Jem'Hadar led Bashir away in a procession of death.

* * *

Pfenner pressed the panel again. The test hadn't worked. Another pilot had been lost. It tore at him, but he knew he was close. Very close. And once he had it, no more pilots would die because of him. He knew Eline didn't see eye to eye with him on this, but he hadn't thought she'd refuse him her company at dinner. Despite their few priveleges, they were both still prisoners. A place of privelege was lonely.

Still there was no answer at her door. He was getting impatient. He had not had a good day and he didn't feel well. Pfenner decided to open it anyway. Privelege also had its benefits. He pressed his code into the panel and the door opened, but Formenos was not there.

"Eline," he called, listening closely for an answer. All he heard was wind.

Wind? There were no windows in this complex. As the wind grew louder, he stepped back into the corridor. Then he stumbled backwards, eyes wide and full of fear. Fire. The air was turning into fire. And just as his mind put that thought together, fire roared through the corridor and poured into the room.

Pfenner couldn't breathe. He felt the heat, but was too shocked to feel the pain. What he felt was a tingle moving through his body. Then his ears registered a horrendously loud explosion and the floor crumbled away beneath him.


	6. Chapter Sixteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Sixteen**

Eline Formenos had sighed when she joined the ranks at the roll call. So far, her borrowed uniform and shaved head were allowing her to blend in with the men. Not even the Jem'Hadar noticed when they counted. Seven times they past her. And somehow the numbers must have come up right.

But she hadn't known about the lottery. And she hadn't known she'd be watching Bormann die. She tried hard to keep from crying, worried that her tears would give her away. She was surprised at how calm everyone seemed. Had they all lost their tongues as Simmons had? Is that why they didn't cry out in protest? No, that couldn't be it. Those who were dying cried out in their agony.

On and on it went. Fifteen dead, three at a time, and fifteen more chosen to carry them. Bashir went with them and the roll call ranks broke. Formenos pushed through the crowds until she saw Simmons. Then she followed him to a barrack building much like the ones in the women's camp that she'd spent her first night in.

Only this one was much more crowded. The had to be at least two hundred men, she thought. She pushed through them hoping to spot a familiar face in the sea of faces around her. She eventually found herself in the back corner, where at least people were sitting down, making it easier for her to see everyone.

"Commander!" she said as soon as she saw him. And that was when the walls shook from the explosion. She, alone, was not surprised and used the confusion to make her way over to Riker. "Commander," she said again. This time, he heard her.

* * *

Bashir broke the woman's neck, not even bothering to think how easy it had become to do so. The dead no longer cared for dignity, so he undressed her without thought, and he tipped up the table without feeling. Bormann was next.

Bormann did not look like that other believer. He looked no different than any of the corpses Bashir had burned in these past weeks--or was it only days? He couldn't remember.

Bashir dropped Bormann's body onto the table and began to remove his clothes. He had just removed the blood-soaked shirt when the table and walls shook violently. Sirens began to blare and Bashir remembered reading that the prisoners had managed to destroy one of the crematoria before the end of the war. No, that wasn't right either. He was in the crematorium, and it was still standing.

The door burst open. "Leave it. Return to your barracks," the kapo ordered. Bashir did as he was ordered and stepped out into chaos. Under the blaring sirens he could make out voices cheering. He looked up and saw a bright flare in the night sky and a blaze on the hill below it. The plant had just exploded.

* * *

"Captain," Data said, breaking through the tension on the Bridge.

Picard kept his eyes on the foreward viewscreen. Still, he knew Data wouldn't interrupt if it wasn't important. "What is it, Mr. Data? Daniels, the second ship on the left. The Breen."

"I see it, sir," Daniel's replied behind him. A second later, the _Enterprise_ had sent out three torpedoes. Two hit their mark and the Breen ship cracked like an egg.

"I have been using a fraction of my processor to scan for evidence of the Away Team," Data answered.

Had anyone else said something like that, Picard would have had a fit. The battle had lasted for thirty hours thus far. Everyone was exhausted, but there were no shifts to spare. The battle required everyone to give everything they had if they wanted _Enterprise_ to stay in one piece. Data, though, was a machine, and Picard had seen many times over the years when Data's ability to process information at astounding speeds had benefited the ship. Even when he used his processor to multi-task. "Have you found anything?"

"I have not found the Away Team, Captain," Data replied. "But I am registering an explosion. Correction, three explosions."

"There are a lot of explosions going on, Data," Troi reminded him. "Why are these significant?"

Data didn't hesitate to answer. "They are well behind the line of engagement. One took place on a moon in orbit of the fourth planet in the Quarron system. Another explosion occurred two thousand kilometers outside that moon's atmosphere. There was a smaller, secondary explosion in the debris field."

"Quarron?" Troi said, then after a moment she must have made a connection. "Mtingwa!" she exclaimed. "She was the escaped prisoner the _Potemkin_ picked up. She said she'd been interned on Quarron IV."

"Cardassians on our tail, Captain," Daniels interrupted. "Four of them."

"Auxilliary power to aft shields," Picard ordered as the first shot hit and nearly bucked him out of his seat. "Helm, evasive maneuvers. Damage report!"

* * *

Riker was surprised to see Formenos kneeling beside him, beckoning him and the others to follow her. Riker stood and they pushed their way through the crowd back toward the door. Once there she knelt and leaned against the wall with Garulos and Simmons on either side of her.

"I don't have much time, but I had to find you," she whispered. "He wasn't a traitor. Pfenner only helped them to try and keep any more pilots from dying in the experiments."

Riker was glad to hear that, but he was still surprised to see her there. "How did you get here?" Riker asked.

Formenos shook her head. "That's not important. I can't go back to the plant and I can't go to the woman's camp. I'm rather hoping _they_ will get you out of here now that the mission is finished. I guess I'll try and make a run for it."

"You can't get far," Riker whispered back.

"It won't matter," she said. "Icarin gas is poisonous. I don't have long anyway. Maybe I can die free though."

Riker didn't want to lose her, not when he'd already lost Bormann. "But if _they_ do come for us, they can give you the antedote."

"Then they'll have to find me," she argued. "I can't stay here. I have a number, remember? One assigned to the plant. I was singled out by Pfenner, privileged. Pfenner died in that explosion. It won't take them long to suspect me. I don't want to draw them to you."

She stood up then, and Riker could see her decision was made. As much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right. But there still had to be a way.

"I want to tell you it's been an honor, sir," she said. "If you get out of here tell my family. . . ."

She didn't get a chance to finish. The door began to raise and Riker could see the boots on the other side. A wave of silence flowed over the barracks from the door to the back wall. Riker turned back to Formenos, his mind racing to find a way to hide her. Simmons reached over and took her face in his hands. By the time the door was raised he was kissing her full on the lips, and she was embracing him.

"Touching," Deyos said as he stepped out from behind the Jem'Hadar, "but it really wasn't very smart to come here."

Simmons and Formenos finished their kiss, but still held each others hands. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice was strong. "I had to say goodbye. I don't expect you to understand."

Deyos huffed at that. "Take her." Two Jem'Hadar stepped forward to take her arms, but she wiped at her tears and stood on her own. "And shoot the other one."

The response was immedient. One of the Jem'Hadar fired and Simmons froze. For one brief second his face was locked in pain. And then he was gone.

"No!" Formenos shouted, as she struggled against her guards.

Deyos remained calm. "Everyone else, outside. There will be another roll call this evening."

* * *

Bashir returned to his barracks in time to see Deyos escorting someone else out. He couldn't see who he was though. The rest of the prisoners began to flow out, and Jordan found him. "Another roll call," he whispered, pulling Bashir along with the crowd. As they lined up, Bashir took his customary place in the front, but this time, the Jem'Hadar pushed to keep him in the first rank, not up by the hooks.

"It seems our count this evening," Deyos announced, "was inaccurate. So we'll have to count again. All those who were assigned to the plant should line up in front for reassignment." He turned to look at a prisoner held between two kapos. "You may all thank the emminent Doctor Formenos for destroying your workplace."

Now he recognized the prisoner. Formenos. He remembered the napkin, his dark visitor in the night. But he still didn't understand why Deyos called her a doctor.

The ranks changed and shuffled, aided by the proddings of the kapos until Deyos was satisfied with their arrangement. Bashir, for once, found himself well back in ranks with the rest of the prisoners behind the plant workers. He felt a slight twinge of relief. He could more easily blend in here. Deyos left the area with the Jem'Hadar who had Formenos and the counting began.

It went on so long that Bashir could no longer feel his legs or understand the numbers the kapos called out. But he recognized them. _Fünfsehn. Swansig. Fünf-und-swansig._ At least twenty prisoners had collapsed somewhere behind him.

Two hours later Deyos emerged once more. Formenos was not with him. "I trust the count is accurate this time." A kapo stepped up and saluted before handing him a PADD. Deyos looked it over and nodded. "Good. Seventy-four need reassignment." He handed the PADD back. "They can be reassigned to the crematorium. Slit their throats. Bring Riker and Bashir to me."

Bashir risked a glance at Riker, but Riker didn't notice. He was pale in the moonlight. Schlachter stayed behind, smiling at the chance to deal with the plant prisoners. Two others escorted he and Riker away. As they passed the lines of condemned, three prisoners slumped to their knees, spewing blood from their necks. Three more followed as the first three fell to the ground. He and Riker were led past them behind the execution building to another compound of more modern buildings.

* * *

Jordan felt sick. Bormann's salvation and then the explosion of the plant had filled him with a burst of joy that was rapidly superceded by a rising panic. This couldn't be good for the camp. For the war, yes. For the Federation, yes. But not for the camp. And though he was prepared to die for the war, for the Federation, he presently had to live in the camp. Fifteen, Bormann included, had died in the lottery. Simmons was killed in the barracks and now seventy-four more were dying in a roll call that could last all night, guaranteeing at least a few more deaths before morning.

Some of the plant workers were his brothers in faith. Some were sisters. All were dying and none could cry out in their fear or pain. None could tell them what went on in that plant and why it had to be destroyed. Why they had to be punished for its destruction. _"God works all things for the good,"_ he told himself, reciting a scripture he held onto with all his heart. _"God works all things for the good." Even bad things. We can only see a part. He sees the whole picture. There is reason in this even when we can't see it. There is reason._ Still he felt sick. His stomach lurched with each _swick_ of the knife against a throat.

Two years he'd been a prisoner, and though it had been horrible, it had eventually taken on a certain routine. It became something he could deal with, as ridiculous as that sounded. It even had its few pleasant things, like the Bible studies and the true brotherhood he felt with the other believers. He would miss that if they were ever released. This was not part of the routine. It began with the stoning and that began with Bashir. V'dara had taken her share of punishment for being one of the Five. But she had been part of the routine. Deyos had disrupted that routine ever since Bashir's arrival. Had it only been three days?

Jordan didn't blame Bashir. Bashir didn't choose this or cause it. Deyos did. Bashir was just a catalyst. Jordan didn't even blame Formenos. She was a war hero now. And her fate was probably no more pleasant than the rest of the plant workers. Worse, more likely.

Somehow, Jordan got the feeling that all this was going to end. It just seemed impossible to him that this situation could continue to spiral as it had. Something was coming, good or bad, to end this camp. Death or liberty. Either was preferrable to this. _"To live is Christ and to die is gain." Paul wrote that once. I think it was Paul._

* * *

"Wait here," Deyos told Riker, and the kapos pushed Riker into a room to the right. Two stayed with him, while another two took up positions to either side of Bashir. Deyos led them to another room and Bashir's breath caught in his throat. He stepped back, bumping into the wall beside the door. What he saw before him was more hideous than anything he'd seen before in his life. Formenos. And she had no face.

"Miss Formenos has been less than cooperative and is presently wishing she would die," Deyos announced without even a hint of emotion in his voice. "That, however, is why you are here. You are to keep her alive. You'll be given anything you need to do just that. Just that and no more." He turned now and pinned Bashir with his gaze. "Is that understood? If I find you have been coddling her, it's your face I'll take."

Deyos stepped out of the way, so that now Bashir could see Formenos again. The shock was wearing off and he was beginning to see that she was alive. Her eyes, with no lids, turned to him. _Her eyes will dry out,_ he thought. And then his mind started to clear. Dried eyes and corneal ulcers were the least of her problems. She'd dehydrate. She'd catch an infection. She would die of shock before any of those others had time to happen.

"Take a few moments," Deyos said. "Step forward. You're a doctor. Assess her condition and tell the Jem'Hadar what you need." Deyos handed him a PADD and left.

The kapo never left the room, but Bashir did his best to ignore him. He touched Formenos's arm gently as he looked her over. She was strapped, naked, to a table by her wrists and ankles. The head strap was, thankfully, not engaged. He checked her breathing first. Her airway was clear. Her breathing came in quick ragged bursts. A sign of pain more than pneumatic injury. Her fingers were clenched into tight fists, and she flinched when he reached for her neck. Her pulse was too fast, possibly indicating shock. He'd need cordrazine and something to check the oxygen level and blood pressure. He suggested a tricorder on the list, but was almost positive they wouldn't give him one of those. There was, of course, a lot of blood, from her hands and from her head, but no arterial lacerations. She wouldn't bleed to death quickly, but she would still need blood. He ordered O-negative and a saline drip to combat dehydration.

He found the rest of her body to be free of major injuries. There was bruising on her torso, legs, and arms, but no other lacerations, no broken bones, and no sign of internal bleeding. Her face was the priority, the wound that could kill her soul if not her body. Mutilation of a person's face was perhaps the most horrific kind of torture. So much of one's identity was in the face. It was psychological hurt as much as a physical one. With proper care, she might be able to have a face again, but she would never forget what had been done to her original one.

The skin of her face had been removed very precisely, from the crown of her head to just under her chin, leaving most of her muscles intact. She still had lips and most of her nose, but her eyelids were missing. Surrounded by the orbicularis oculi muscles, her intact eyes were left with some ability of expression. Pain, they told him, and a plea for help. Under normal circumstances, he would perscribe something for her pain, but Deyos had said he couldn't coddle her, and he was sure lowering her pain levels would be considered coddling.

Her eyes themselves looked unnaturally wide open, but she could move them to turn her gaze. She could not blink, however, and salty tears fell down the sides of her face, burning the exposed flesh there.

The room, like the whole camp, was dusty and certainly not sterile. With this much exposed flesh, she was highly susceptible to infection. Her wounds needed to be washed and she'd need an antiseptic. There was something else, too, though, without a tricorder or a laboratory, he could not quite make out what it was. Blood poisoning, he would guess, but without knowing the poison, he could not order an antedote. He wanted to do more for her, but he didn't doubt Deyos would do what he said. Or worse. The only thing Deyos wouldn't do was kill him. Bashir was an example. Heiler had done the same, for different reasons. Bashir squeezed Formenos's arm gently, and then began to write what medicines and tools he'd need on the PADD. He also wrote down a blanket. She needed to be kept warm if they didn't want her to die of shock. As a last thought, he added eye drops for her eyes, not knowing if Deyos would count preventing blindness as coddling.

* * *

Riker stood still, facing the table. There were straps for wrists and feet, even one for a head. He wondered now what they had done to Formenos, what they were going to do to Bashir. He tried not to think about what they were going to do to him. _Garulos,_ he thought, _I hope you give them the same story. Simmons gave it to us. They were lovers. She just came to say goodbye._ Simmons, at least, had died quickly. He would have died anyway, with the other plant workers. Being shot, he didn't have to suffer long.

The door opened and Riker turned to face it. Deyos arrived alone. "Formenos is your crewman," he stated, leaving the door opened. "Correct?"

Riker saw no reason to lie about that one. They were captured together. "Yes."

"As was Simmons."

"Yes."

"And in a matter of days after your arrival here," Deyos said, stepping further in, "she destroyed the plant." The door closed behind him, and his voice rose in volume. "And yet you would have me believe you were all on leave?"

Riker stood as still as possible, and tried to not let his fear show. "Yes."

"How did she manage to do it so quickly unless it was planned?"

"How could it be planned," Riker risked asking a question in return, "if we didn't plan to get captured, we don't know where it is we've been interned, nor what was going on at the plant because you had all the workers' tongues cut out?"

To Riker's surprise, Deyos actually seemed to be thinking about that. He paused and didn't move except to frown.

The door opened again and another Jem'Hadar stepped in. He moved between Deyos and Riker and spoke quietly. Riker couldn't hear what he was saying, but he heard Deyos. "Bring her here."

Her? Would they bring Formenos in? Riker found himself divided. He wanted to see her, to know she was okay, but he also hoped it was not her, so he wouldn't have to see what they were doing to her. Would they make him watch?

The Jem'Hadar nodded abruptly and stepped out. Only a few seconds later he came in again, this time with two other Jem'Hadar and a human woman dressed in black. Riker recognized her, though he tried hard not to show it. Dayton.

Deyos forced her head up with his hand under her chin. "Do you know this woman?"

Riker shook his head even before he answered. "No. Should I?"

Deyos faced the woman. "Do you know him?"

She crossed her arms and took her time looking at Riker's face. "No, I don't think we've ever met. He's kind of dirty, but he looks a little familiar. One of the _Enterprise_ senior staff, I believe. Data--no, he's the android. He's certainly not Captain Picard." She switched her focus to Deyos. "Picard is bald," she explained. "So he must be Riker. Yes, Commander William Thomas Riker."

"So you do know him?"

She shook her head. "No. I know _of_ him. The _Enterprise_ is the flagship of the Federation. Everyone knows _of_ her senior staff. Would you like me to name the others?"

Deyos was getting frustrated. He put his hands together behind his back, but his shoulders were raised and taut, where Dayton's were loose and relaxed.

"Who are you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she said, smiling as if she were the interrogator and he the prisoner.

Deyos smacked her hard across the face. She would have fallen if the Jem'Hadar were not holding her by the arms. She straightend up again, still smiling, and laughing softly.

"Take her to the next room and secure her!" Deyos shouted, and she was taken away.

Riker had to give her credit. She had shortened the dual-interview, where one of them might eventually have slipped and admitted he or she knew the other. He hoped she could stay as brave when they began to torture her. Yes, torture. Because that's what the table was for. He knew it. And he knew his turn had come.

* * *

Garulos shivered as he stood in the ranks. The counting was over and the plant workers were dead. But still they stood. He wasn't cold, but he found he couldn't keep his legs from shaking. Bormann was dead. Simmons was dead. Formenos, Riker, and Bashir had been taken. Why hadn't they taken him? He was the only other member of the runabout's crew. Bashir wasn't even part of the crew, really. He was more of a last minute addition. He didn't really know much about their mission, and he probably wasn't sane enough to tell them anything useful right now anyway.

Garulos had been watching him. He didn't need as much sleep as the humans. Five hours was enough, and that was intermittent. It was normal for him to wake up four or five times through the night. But every night when he went to sleep, Bashir was still awake. And he was awake any time Garulos woke up. Bashir would be lying down or sitting, but almost always wide-eyed, like he was seeing something no one else saw. Sometimes, he'd sit up and quickly draw his legs into his chest. He'd stare at the wall or the floor, and occasionally it looked like he was watching someone walk the length of the barracks. Garulos wondered what he was seeing. He'd heard a little about the Holocaust from Earth history. Just a mention here and there in his classes at the Academy. He knew the name Auschwitz, that it was the largest killing center of that time. Earth had once been a very violent place. The thought that this people, humans, proponents of peace and unity and cooperation, had once tried to exterminate different sects within themselves had seemed so incongruous that Garulos had rather put it out of his mind.

But Commander Riker had said Bashir had been there. And Jordan had said this place reminded him of Auschwitz. Garulos didn't remember much about Auschwitz, but he knew he didn't want to go there. People were tortured there, starved, worked to death, and slaughtered. Here, Garulos had seen people starved, worked to death, and slaughtered. He hadn't seen anyone tortured. Yet. But that was most likely what was happening to Formenos, Riker, and Bashir right now. And he knew he'd be next.

What would he say? They might ask him about the plant, and the plot to blow it up. He could say he didn't know. Formenos did it. He hated to point the finger to her, but he couldn't think of any way to say she hadn't done it. So she had. But she'd done it alone. They didn't have contact with her. How could they have known? She only showed up this evening to say goodbye to her lover, Simmons. In truth, he hadn't even known if they were infatuated with one another, but Simmons had kissed her for a reason. And that was most likely to give her an alibi, a reason to be there that night that didn't include telling them their mission was complete. Because there had to be no mission. They were on leave. Riker had said that. It made sense for two lovers would go on leave together. So Simmons and Formenos would be lovers. Yes, but could he continue to deny his and Riker's involvement under pain?

His mind raced over different methods of torture, wondering what they might be doing to Riker, Formenos, and Bashir. What they would do to him. Fingernails. Fingernails were common. There were many nerve-endings in the fingers. Or pummeling the soles of ones feet with a rubber truncheon. It seemed simple enough, but it was reportedly very effective. Fire or branding, gouging out the eyes, cutting off a limb, crucifixion. . . .

A hand on his shoulder stopped his thoughts. "Barracks," Jordan said. The roll call had finally ended.

* * *

"I told you," Riker said, between gulping breaths of air, "I didn't know . . . what she was . . . doing."

"And I think you are underestimating my intelligence," Deyos retorted. Riker barely heard the rest as Deyos thumbed the keypad again. "She came here with you. Three days after she was assigned to the plant, it exploded. You are her commanding officer. She wouldn't take such a bold move without your approval."

The electric shock dissolved, but the pain lingered. "She would . . .," he choked out, ". . . if she had no contact with me . . . and she thought the situation dire enough. . . . Until tonight, I hadn't seen her since you separated her from the rest of us."

"Not so totally separated," Deyos argued. "You had Simmons at the plant."

Thankfully, there was no shock time. "You cut his tongue out," Riker replied. "He couldn't even tell us what color the walls were."

The electricity coursed through his body again, and Riker felt himself scream. It stopped and Deyos spoke, "You humans can communicate without words."

"Then why cut their tongues out?" Riker asked. Turning the table, so to speak, had worked with Deyos in the past.

Deyos didn't answer but thumbed the pad instead. When he released it and Riker stopped screaming, he spoke, "He was seen talking with Formenos."

How did he know that? Riker wondered. "Was he talking to her or was she talking to him?"

"They were conspiring regardless of who was talking to whom," Deyos said, but Riker heard a little disappointment in his voice.

Riker knew it was dangerous, but he couldn't keep the anger out of his tone. "Maybe you should have asked Simmons before you killed him."

The shock was instant for that one. Riker rode it as best he could. He vaguely wondered if anyone had heard him screaming. He didn't, but he could feel it. Finally it stopped. He took in a long shaky breath. "They were lovers. It makes sense she'd go to him."

"I tire of this," Deyos said. "What was your mission?"

"We were on shore leave," Riker repeated, and then braced himself for the next wave. Deyos didn't disappoint.

"I could still put you on a hook," Deyos threatened once he'd stopped the current.

"Wouldn't change my story," Riker insisted, "because I'm already telling the truth."

Deyos turned away and stepped toward the door, which opened. Riker hoped it meant he was done, but he doubted it. "Bring Garulos," Deyos told someone there. Riker couldn't see as he was strapped to the table, but he guessed it was a Jem'Hadar. The door closed and Deyos came back to the side of the table. "Maybe he will tell a different story. Or maybe you will."

"He won't," Riker held, "and I won't." He hated the thought of them torturing Garulos, but he couldn't think of a good way to exclude him. Garulos was the only other member of the Away Team. He was part of the _Enterprise_ crew. "You can just ask Formenos, if you haven't killed her yet."

"She proved less than cooperative," Deyos said.

"Or maybe she told you the truth, too: That she and Simmons were lovers."

"Or maybe Bashir," Deyos tried. "He seems to be popular among the other prisoners. One of the Five, they call him. I wonder what he'd say."

"He'd say he doesn't know," Riker said. "He wasn't part of my crew. He only joined us on leave. He'd never even met any of the others."

"He was temporarily assigned to _Enterprise_," Deyos reminded him.

"For two weeks," Riker said, deciding he didn't like where this was headed, or the look in the Vorta's eye. "And he was under our counselor's care most of the time. He couldn't even see when we found him."

Deyos raised one eyebrow. "We'll see."

* * *

The _Defiant_ rocked from another hit. "Report!" Captain Sisko ordered.

"Aft shields at forty percent," Dax reported.

Sisko gripped the arms of his chair as the ship bucked again.

"Make that thirty-seven percent," Dax said. "Crew efficiency is even lower."

Sisko knew what she meant. The _Defiant_ was a tough ship and could handle a prolonged battle. Her crew, however, needed sleep now and then, and most of them had not had time to do so since leaving DS Nine. Fortunately, adrenaline negates the fatigue in a life-or-death situation, but only for so long.

"Captain," Colonel Kira interjected. "We're getting a scrambled message from _Enterprise_."

Sisko kept his eyes on the forward viewer, where a Cardassian Attack Cruiser was venting plasma and trying to evade the _Defiant_'s weapons fire. "Keep after them, Mr. Worf. What does it say, Colonel?"

"Their long-range sensors picked up three explosions near Quarron IV," Kira replied. "One on the planet itself, two in orbit. There are four ships moving into that sector including one heavy cargo vessel."

"Quarron IV?" Sisko repeated.

Dax didn't wait for him to remember. "Mtingwa said she was interned there."

The Cardassian ship exploded, sending a large chunk of hull hurtling toward a Galaxy-class vessel off the port bow. The Galaxy had enough problems, with four Jem'Hadar fighters. "Mr. Worf--" Sisko began.

"I see it," Worf said. The _Defiant_'s guns fired twice and the hull fraction exploded into harmless debris.

"Let's see if we can't help her some more," Sisko suggested. "Helm, bring us around for a pass."

"Aye, sir."

"Colonel," Sisko said, "see if you can't get Quarron IV on our sensors. I've got a feeling we might find our doctor there."

One of the Jem'Hadar ships blew up, and another was taken out by the Galaxy's aft phasers. "I think they can handle the other two," Sisko said. "Let's find us another target."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Dax quipped.

* * *

Bashir waited. The Jem'Hadar had taken his list, leaving him alone in the room with Formenos. Formenos had not tried to speak to him, and Bashir paced. It was late and he wanted to be asleep, but sleep wouldn't come. Sometimes he saw a man sitting in the corner watching, but he'd turn and find the man had vanished. He tried the walls but all he saw and felt was concrete. There was nothing to take apart. He'd gone around the room sixty times by the time the door opened again. Two Vorta entered bringing nearly everything he'd asked for while the Jem'Hadar kapo stood guard. Everything except the eye drops. So Formenos would go blind. There was no point hoping anymore. Not for her and not for him. Deyos would keep them both alive.

The blood they brought, however, was not O-negative. It was O-positive. Having no other way to test it, Bashir hung the bag. He turned over the PADD and released a bit of the O-positive onto its surface. They'd given him a syringe to draw blood and a small scanner that would tell him the blood\oxygen level. He drew a bit from her arm and let a drop of that fall onto the PADD and mix with the O-positive there. When it didn't coagulate, he knew it would be safe to tranfuse her.

The Vorta allowed Bashir to insert the intravenous tubes that would feed her blood and saline solution while they asked him what her oxygen level and blood pressure should be to keep her alive. He told them and they quickly ushered him out of the room. Deyos met him in the hall. "Well done," Deyos said. "It appears your skills have not lessened. This should be just what you'd hoped for: frontier medicine."

Bashir didn't say anything. He'd learned it was best to keep quiet from Heiler. He kept his eyes on the floor.

Deyos just stood looking at him for a few minutes. Bashir couldn't see his eyes, but he could feel himself being watched. Heiler had done that. Stared at him. Finally, Deyos turned. "Come with me, Doctor," he said.

His two kapos appeared and helped Bashir to comply by taking his arms. They stopped in front of a metal door, and Deyos slid open a window at the top of it. "Do you know this woman?" he asked.

Schlachter pushed Bashir forward toward the glass. He kept his eyes closed at first, not wanting to see her smiling at him with those black eyes she liked to use. "Look!" the kapo ordered, smashing his face hard into the window. Bashir opened his eyes after the impact, but he didn't see Heiler there. There was a red-haired woman, dressed in black sitting against the far wall. She looked up at him but did not smile. Her eyes were not black. He recognized her. She was the one who had visited him in the night. "No," Bashir said. And it was true. He didn't know her.

"Not at all?" Deyos asked.

"She's not who I thought she was," Bashir said.

"Who did you think she was?" Deyos asked, and Schlachter roughly turned Bashir around to face the Vorta.

"Heiler," Bashir replied, bringing a hand up to his nose. It was bleeding, but not broken.

Deyos was watching him again with that curious expression on his face. "Who is Heiler? Did she help you?" His voice was soft, kind, not demanding, and not like Deyos had ever spoken before.

"No," Bashir answered. Heiler had never helped him, no matter how many selections she'd taken him out of. "Heiler is a changeling."

"A Founder?" Deyos practically squeaked. "Here?"

The other Jem'Hadar behind him spoke up. "No ships have arrived yet. There is no Founder here."

Bashir wondered why they hadn't seen her. "She was in the room with Formenos."

"There was no one else in the room," the Jem'Hadar contradicted.

"Hmm." Deyos said. "Perhaps we should start again. Do you know what caused the explosion?"

Bashir thought a moment. Formenos caused the explosion. The dark woman had given him a napkin and Simmons gave it to Formenos. "A napkin," was all he said.

"A napkin?" Deyos asked, his voice telling Bashir that he didn't believe him. "Napkins do not explode."

Bashir did not bother to elaborate. The Federation was still the lesser of the two evils in the war.

"Do you know where you are?" Deyos asked.

Bashir looked around him, noting the narrow corridors and heavy metal doors. "The main camp, in the Death Block," he answered.

"Perhaps you really are delusional."

Bashir didn't argue. If he was delusional, perhaps they'd leave him alone. Or kill him.

Deyos shook his head, and looked past Bashir to the Jem'Hadar. "Take him to holding cell three." Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

"Do you know what this is?" Deyos asked, pointing to a thick wand a Jem'Hadar was holding.

Garulos shook his head. He was kneeling, naked, on the floor in an empty room with his hands tied behind his back.

"It's an intriguing device," Deyos said. "It can deliver a bolt of heat at two hundred degrees Celcius. I'm told it feels a bit like a bolt of electricity, except that it's more localized. And it burns. Would you like to try it?"

Garulos tried to keep his breath steady and even. "Not particularly."

Deyos smiled. "Good, then all you have to do is tell us what we want to know."

"What you want," Garulos asked, "or the truth?"

"One second, left foot," Deyos ordered.

The bolt was immediate and thankfully short. Still, it had stolen the breath from Garulos's lungs and sent a searing pain up his entire leg.

"The truth," Deyos said, "is what we want. What was your mission?"

"There was no mission," Garulos told him, knowing it was neither what they wanted to hear or the truth. "We were returning early from shore leave." He waited for the order for the baton. But it didn't come.

"Why were you returning?"

Garulos answered, "I don't know."

"Four, lower spine."

The bolt threw him forward, face forward to the floor, but the baton stayed with him, burning him with a pain that reached up into his neck and down both legs. Then it stopped, leaving only the heat. For a moment, he couldn't move even to relax his muscles that had flexed tight from the pain.

"I was asleep," Garulos managed to say in his defense. "I was the most junior crewmember except Formenos. If the commander knew, he didn't tell me."

Deyos knelt down near Garulos's head, which still rested on the floor. "Did you conspire with Formenos to destroy the plant?"

Fearing another bolt, Garulos regardless stuck to the lie. "No."

"Did anyone in your crew?"

"Not that I know of."

"What about Bashir? He's genetically enhanced to be more intelligent than the rest of you. Formenos is no scientist. She could not have planned this on her own."

Garulos decided he could best deflect them from Bashir by embellishing the truth, "Most of the time, he doesn't even now which century we are in."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Garulos swallowed. "No."

"Two, ear."

He had nowhere to go, so the bolt drove him harder into the floor. The whine of it was deafening, all he could see was red. Even his teeth hurt. When it over, he still couldn't hear. He could make out that Deyos was talking, but it was like trying to hear through mud.

He could hear his own voice sceaming when something touched his burnt ear. There was a hand on the other side of his head, too, and it was turned so that his good ear was no longer resting on the concrete.

"There are worse places," Deyos said. "If I promise not to order it, will you tell me what your real mission was?"

Garulos watched him closely as he spoke, and the thought of just what those worse places were terrified him. But still, he could not incriminate the rest of the crew. Besides, his people had a saying: Pain is temporary. Death is not. "We had no mission," he replied. "I've already told you."

His mind blocked out Deyos's order, but it couldn't stop him from screaming until his throat was raw and he coughed up blood. Deyos had told the truth. There were worse places.

* * *

The morning roll call came early. The sky was still dark, and Jordan estimated it had been only three hours since Garulos was taken from the barracks. No one had spoken, though the Christians had gotten together to pray. No one spoke now. Any break in the routine was a bad sign.

There were no rations waiting for them outside. As awful as they tasted, they were the only source of nutrition for the prisoners. When they reached the roll call grounds, the prisoners found the seventy-four plant workers were gone, but the blood remained on the walls and ground where the lottery and the slaughter had taken place. Riker, then, had not returned. But, then, neither had Garulos, and Jordan didn't figure Formenos would ever return. A quick look over his shoulder told Jordan that Bashir had been returned to work, but he had likely worked all night and would continue on into the day.

Jordan sighed. Would anything be left of Bashir when the war ended and they were released? Jordan didn't worry about himself. His faith kept him sane. It was something the Dominion couldn't take away. Live or die, he had it.

They stood for another three hours while the Jem'Hadar counted. It was a subtle form of torture, Jordan knew. The Jem'Hadar weren't so inaccurate that they needed three hours to count the collected prisoners. They just counted and recounted to wear the prisoners down. Finally, the count was finished, and Deyos arrived. He read the number aloud. "Six thousand, four hundred and seventy-two. And the eighty-four dead bring the total to six thousand, five hundred and fifty-six. Is this correct, First?"

The Jem'Hadar First stepped forward. "All are accounted for."

"Bashir, and four others in the compound, so six thousand, five hundred, sixty-one," Deyos said. Jordan wondered why he bothered reading the numbers into the public announcement system. That was another break in the routine.

Another Vorta handed Deyos another PADD, and Deyos began reading the numbers of those selected the night before, and the fifteen Chosen died before the sun had even come up. Deyos broke with routine once again, and did not call fifteen more names. "This will be your last day in this camp," Deyos announced instead. "Return to your barracks and await further instructions."

While that might have seemed like an occasion to rejoice, Jordan felt his stomach drop. It could have meant the Dominion was simply going to kill everyone. The prisoners were not silent this time as they trudged back to their barracks. Jordan could hear at least four distinct conversations, though all were pondering the same thing. What was the Dominion up to? Jordan wondered who the fifth was that Deyos had mentioned. Bashir, Riker, Garulos, and Formenos were only four.

* * *

Riker crouched in the corner of the room. He turned his head to the other wall and tried once more to sleep. He was cold because he had not been given his clothes back, and he was sore from the interrogation the night before. But at least he was off the table and Deyos wasn't asking him questions anymore. He turned his head again, trying to ease the crick in his neck, but it wouldn't go away. His legs ached from the position he was in.

Deyos's voice woke him. He jerked awake expecting to see the Vorta in the room, but there was no one else there, except Bashir. "And five in the compound," Deyos said, and Riker realized he was speaking over the public address system. There was a speaker near the ceiling on one of the walls. Riker looked over at Bashir and wondered how many hours he'd been asleep. There were no windows to tell him if it was light out yet, and he was sure Bashir's eyes had hardly closed the whole time anyway. He hadn't spoken when Bashir, still clothed in his striped uniform, was pushed into the cell. He had wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep.

He still wanted that. Whatever he'd gotten those few hours during the night, it could hardly have been called sleep. _It could only vaguely be called resting,_ he thought. _Bashir and four in the compound._ He and Bashir were locked in there together. Garulos, Formenos, and Dayton. So they were all still held away from the general prison population.

The door slid open and Riker froze. Deyos was still speaking, so it couldn't mean a return trip to the table. Or could it?

Two Jem'Hadar entered, between them they held Garulos. Like Riker, he was naked, but unlike Riker he was covered in dark red, swollen wounds. His head hung loose from his shoulders and his legs dragged behind him on the floor. He was unconscious. The Jem'Hadar said nothing but dropped Garulos to the floor and left. Garulos moaned but otherwise did not move.

As soon as the door closed, Riker made his way to his crewman. Before he could reach him, Garulos had gotten to his knees. "Don't touch me," he growled in warning.

"Sarpen," Riker said, crouching down again, "it's Commander Riker."

Garulos looked up and Riker could see his left ear was burnt nearly black. "Just stay away, sir," he said, more softly. He tried but failed to get to his feet and settled for crawling to the far corner of the room. When he reached it, he just laid down on his side, turning his back toward Riker.

Riker looked to Bashir and found him watching, but silent. He dropped his head and Riker understood. There was nothing he could do for Garulos. Riker felt sick. He had no wounds on his own body besides the bruises he'd acquired his first day. The electric shocks the table had delivered had not left marks. They'd done worse to Garulos. Much worse. He looked away and slid back to his corner, offering Garulos as much privacy as he could in their current predicament.

"Some shore leave," Garulos complained from his corner. "I would have chosen Risa."

"What about you?" Riker asked Bashir. He didn't look hurt, and he did still have his uniform. He looked pale, but otherwise the same as earlier in the evening.

"They took me to Formenos," Bashir replied softly without raising his head.

Riker felt awake at that. "What have they done to her?"

Bashir didn't look up. "They took her face."

Riker didn't understand that. He didn't to want understand. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Shh," Bashir said. "With three people, the air will go faster. Don't talk."

Riker sighed and looked to the space just under the door. There was plenty of air in the cell, and it was worrisome that Bashir couldn't see that. But Riker didn't have the energy to worry about Bashir right now. Bashir was fine, physically, except for his self-induced lack of sleep and food. Garulos was beyond anything worry could cure, and Riker's own body was still stiff and sore. He let his head fall against the wall again, closed his eyes and tried to dream of Risa and Deanna Troi.

* * *

"They're breaking off," Daniels called from the tactical station.

"It would appear so," Picard agreed. On the forward viewscreen, three Breen ships broke off their attack and turned themselves around. Picard checked the fleet's status in the console in front of him. There were reports from each flank telling of the retreat. "Keep after them."

The _Enterprise_ would be glad for the respite. She'd put up a good fight, and still had some fight within her, but she was bruised and tired. Three decks had had to be closed off due to hull breaches, the shields were holding at twenty-eight percent overall, and the best Geordi could coax out of the warp engine was warp five point three. A handful of Cardassians had even managed to board her during the night, but Security had fought them off. _Enterprise_ herself could count twenty-four kills, the highest tally in the fleet. In all, over seven hundred Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships had been destroyed or disabled. The Federation and her allies had three hundred and another two hundred and fifty-two were disabled. But clearing the D'Nexi Lines meant that the Dominion had lost a major source of dilithium. And that meant their efforts to develop K-Layer Subspace Concealment would be set back years. Years in which the Federation hoped to win this war.

Like the _Enterprise_, the Federation forces did not allow the Dominion forces to simply retreat. The Dominion had occupied the four systems behind D'Nexi since the early days of the war. It was time they were liberated.

* * *

Everyone sat quiet; a few even slept. Jordan just watched and prayed silently to himself. Something was coming. It had been at least three hours since the roll call ended. The door to the barracks remained locked. The sun, by now, was pouring in between the boards of the walls. Dust floated in the rays of light and Jordan let them calm him.

The door began to rise, and the prisoners inside stood ready to face whatever it was before them. They had made a pact between them while they were waiting. If the Dominion did try to execute them, they would fight. Deyos could no longer threaten them with starvation. He'd said himself they wouldn't be here long enough for that.

"You will step outside," a voice yelled. "And form ranks of five at the roll call grounds." A Vorta voice, but not Deyos. Jordan was well in the back of the building, so he couldn't see who was speaking. "Exit quickly."

Slowly the building began to empty until finally Jordan could move with the others. The sun was bright as he stepped outside, and he was surprised to see upward of fifty Jem'Hadar standing guard around the building and the path to roll call. They were, of course, armed, but they made no move to threaten the prisoners. He was surprised to see that there were no other prisoners out. He joined a rank with four other Christians and waited. Two Jem'Hadar walked their ranks and reported back the number. Jordan had done a quick estimate himself. Twenty five ranks of five, give or take. About one hundred and fifty men. Where was the rest of the camp?

The rest of the Jem'Hadar had moved to take up positions around the prisoners' ranks, and the Vorta yelled again. "You will keep your ranks. You will be marched out of this camp to a waiting ship. If anyone falls out of rank, they will be executed immediately. Do not fall behind."

The Jem'Hadar took up the orders then and the ranks began to move in double-time. Jordan hoped the ship would not be far. Most of the men, himself included, were far too weak from constant hunger to keep this pace for long.

The fifty Jem'Hadar stayed with them, surrounding the prisoner's line. Ordinarily the pace wouldn't be too difficult. It was little faster than a jog, but Jordan had been a prisoner for well on two years. His body had become somewhat used to the conditions of the camp, but that didn't include jogging anywhere. His stomach growled and his mouth became dry even as they passed the main gate into the unknown beyond the camp. All Jordan could see was dirt. No trees, no hills, just dirt and clouds of dust. And the dust stung his eyes and made his thirst that much more poignant.

Someone fell and nearly tripped the ranks behind them, but the Jem'Hadar yelled for them to keep going. Jordan chanced a glance back to see one of the surrounding guards pull the man away and slit his throat before rejoining the line. Kraru, on Jordan's left, coughed and stumbled. "I can't," he whispered. Jordan took his right arm, and Barlu his left, and did not let him fall.

"We go together," Barlu said. "God has not forsaken us. This ship could be a salvation."

"Or futher torment," someone muttered from the next rank up.

In the distance, Jordan began to see a large, dark shape through the dust. Very large. The ship.


	7. Chapter Seventeen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Seventeen**

Jordan tried to stay near the front. That got easier as each barrack was emptied and the prisoners were marched to the ship. It was a simple cargo vessel. Cardassian construction originally, but the Dominion had modified it with their own technology. And unlike most cargo vessels, this one lacked compartments. The hold consisted of one large space jerry-rigged into three decks. The decks, however, did not extend the entire length from back to front. The forward twenty meters were open, with no railings to prevent falls from the upper decks. The forward wall of the hold was fitted with a large viewscreen.

Jordan was on the second deck, just behind the Jem'Hadar guards and only a yard back from the edge. Of the fifty that had escorted them to the ship only ten remained on each deck. Two stood guard at the ladders, the only method of transit between decks. The other eight stood on the forward edge.

The decks themselves were not solid but made of a hard titanium mesh so that Jordan could see through the ceiling above him and the floor below. He had enlisted Barlu and Compton to scan the deck below. Cortran and Ledora were doing their best to scan the upper deck from below, and Ka'man and Detrilekan were wandering the second deck. Jordan himself stayed put at the front where he could see the cargo lift and each group of some two hundred prisoners arrive.

He had lost count of how many many times he had seen those doors open. At least ten Jem'Hadar were with them, and one single Vorta checked that load off on a PADD and directed traffic into the hold. The earliest arrivals had filled the upper deck first. Jordan and his barracks were directed to the center deck where already some one thousand prisoners were milling. More came after them. Lastly, the lowest level was being filled. And Jordan had yet to see Bashir among the prisoners.

Riker and Garulos were also missing, and Jordan reminded himself that they were in as much danger as Bashir. There was just something different about Bashir. He was crew. Jordan's crew. Even after two years with the Dominion, he had not forgotten that his post was on Deep Space Nine. There were no other prisoners on this ship that could understand--especially under present circumstances--how that Cardassian monstrosity could be called home. Bashir could.

And beyond that was a little bit of disappointment. Not just in Bashir, but also in himself. He had risked his own life to save Bashir from the Nazis and not only had Bashir gone back to Auschwitz, but now he was a prisoner again and losing his mind to boot. Was that the life he'd sacrificed to save? But then, Jordan himself had been a part of that decline. If he hadn't been so careless, he might never have been captured. His capture led to an experiment that had nearly killed Bashir. What had that done to Bashir's mind?

But he had also had a lot of time to think in those two years and to learn wisdom. Those were fleeting thoughts, self-pity and blame. They were not truth, not really. The present and the future were what mattered now. The past was just that: past.

* * *

Riker was sore, tired, and uncomfortable. He was sure, however, that Garulos was worse on all three accounts. Deyos had not come for them again. Instead, the Jem'Hadar first had come in and thrown the two uniforms down onto the floor. Bashir, who had just spent the previous hour doing nothing but staring at the wall, had actually seemed somewhat lucid. While Riker pulled his trousers on, Bashir had gone over to Garulos to help him dress. Riker watched as he did so, out of concern for Garulos and curious about Bashir's sudden switch in behavior. Bashir looked like the doctor Riker remembered from Carello Neru. He was professional, even strong, but also gentle. He didn't make Garulos move anymore than was absolutely necessary, but did most of the work himself, even buttoning the front of Garulos's shirt. Garulos, normally a stern, independent crewman, did not protest or even try to help more than Bashir made him. That worried Riker. Whatever they'd done to Garulos was many times worse than what they had done to him.

So here they were, Bashir and he, marching out of the camp and into the dusty horizon holding Garulos between them. And Riker could tell that Bashir was holding more of the weight. _Those must have been some enhancements,_ he thought to himself, but wondered why they hadn't bolstered his mental fortitude. While there was no doubt that Bashir's intellect had been enhanced, his ability to fight the insanity that the Dominion and Section 31 foisted upon him was no stronger than what any human might have. Riker couldn't say it was less. He'd had questionable times himself. Fortunately, he'd had Deanna to get him through. Bashir had had Deanna, too, and he must indeed have been enhanced to fool her.

Garulos stiffened with each step, but he kept his feet moving, trying to help somewhat in his own transport. Riker honestly didn't know if Sarpen would survive. Bashir wouldn't discuss it, nor had he tried to treat Garulos's wounds during their hours in the cell. Of course, there was nothing Bashir could have treated him with, so Riker didn't fault him. He also didn't know if, even were his body healed, Garulos would be any better off than Bashir right now. He was scarred, in more ways than one.

Bashir was just one step away from the edge, Riker thought, and leaning forward. Starfleet and the Federation would lose an incredible mind and caring physician one way or the other. The Dominion would either kill him or drive him over that edge.

But right now what they were driving them to was a ship. A very large Cardassian cargo ship. Two Jem'Hadar and one Vorta had accompanied them, not allowing them to slow or stop for rest. Still it had taken an hour, at Riker's guess to reach the ship. Their escorts did nothing to help them aboard either. They nudged he and Bashir with the butts of their rifles. Thankfully, though, they didn't touch Garulos. They entered through two large cargo doors into what Riker assumed was a cargo lift, as they were well below the level of the hold. The lift rose about ten meters and stopped. Two doors opened on the other side, and he and Bashir were pushed out.

The hold was immense. Rather than having separate storage compartments, the whole thing was opened up into one three-tiered area. Riker couldn't even see the aft bulkhead as there were thousands of prisoners crowded into all three decks that he could see. Looking up, he noticed Jordan watching from the second deck.

There was another Vorta in the open area in front of the decks. "Low deck," he said, pointing without even looking up from his PADD. "Except for Bashir. Wait here. You are to supervise the facilities for Dr. Formenos."

Riker gave Bashir one last look as he let go of Garulos. Riker nearly fell from the weight, but Garulos put more effort into standing and together they made it the twenty yards to the lowest crowd of prisoners, just behind a row of Jem'Hadar guards.

Formenos. So she was still alive. Riker couldn't quite imagine what she might look like without a face. Bashir might have been delusional when he said it. Riker hoped so, for her sake, but then, if they needed Bashir to supervise the facilities, she must have been in very bad shape. Riker even spared a thought for Dayton, if for no other reason than that she knew their mission and might give away what, so far, none of his crew had.

* * *

Deyos arrived shortly after Riker took Garulos into the crowds on the lower deck. Bashir had watched as the prisoners crowded a little closer together to give Garulos room to lie down on the floor. Garulos wouldn't survive much longer, not without treatment. Deyos led him back to the lift, which rose again another four meters. "Follow me," was all he said. They went down a narrow corridor, across a long catwalk, past four doors on either side, and made a right turn. Bashir tried to memorize the path. He felt it might somehow be important later. He wanted to go back to the other prisoners with Riker and Garulos.

They turned right again and headed aft. They only went two doors before Deyos stopped. He pressed his hand to a panel next to the door on the right and the door opened. "She will be arriving here by transporter," Deyos said as they entered. "My previous order still stands. Make sure she survives, nothing more." Then he turned and left.

He was alone. No guards, no kapos, no prisoners, no Vorta. No one. He leaned back against the wall and let his body relax for the first time in what seemed like months. He knew it wouldn't last, but it felt good for at least that moment. The air began to shimmer around him and he felt the tension return to his shoulders. Instruments appeared. A cabinet with hyposprays. A table. A pole with IV equipment. And finally Formenos herself. He could tell they'd used the antiseptic. Her face looked cleaner now, though it was still bleeding. And now the skin of her hands had been taken away as well. She held her fingers flexed above the metal table. Her eyes were red and dull. She turned them toward him, and he wondered how well she could see now.

He moved to the side of her table and touched her arm gently again. As he pushed the first IV needle into her arm, he was surprised to hear her voice. "Kill me," she begged.

Bashir closed his eyes and felt his own heart beg the same thing. This existence was too cruel, too ugly, too painful to continue. "They won't let me," he whispered to her. And to himself.

The door opened behind them and Bashir turned to see Deyos had returned with two other Vorta. The two others went to the cabinet and began filling hyposprays. Deyos kept his eyes on Bashir. "Come with me, Doctor."

Bashir followed, expecting to be returned to the rest of the prisoners, but instead of turning left out the door, they turned right. They continued aft for perhaps twenty meters before Deyos opened another door on the right. This was a bigger room, and Schlachter and three other Jem'Hadar were waiting inside.

"Activate the comm channel," Deyos said as he led Bashir to a platform in the center of the room. Bashir couldn't see any viewscreens in the room and Deyos was not wearing a headset. He wondered what comm channel he was referring to. And he wondered what the platform was for. It wasn't big enough to be called a table as it was perhaps only half a meter square on top. There was, however, a strap on it much like those that held Formenos's arms and legs to the table. "Tell me, Doctor," Deyos asked, "are you right-handed or left-handed?"

Two Jem'Hadar grabbed hold of his arms and Bashir knew the platform was for him. And he knew what they would do. Heiler, in the guise of the Gestapo had asked him the same question. He couldn't answer then and he was afraid to answer now.

"If you don't answer, I'll have to choose for you," Deyos said.

Bashir couldn't answer. He was right-handed and he knew Deyos knew that. The other Vortas had seen him put in the IV. He needed his right hand. But his left was still new. He looked at his hand and saw it mangled and discolored. He felt the pain shooting up his arm.

Deyos didn't give him long to decide. "Left then," the Vorta ordered.

Bashir tried to pull his arm away, but the Jem'Hadar were too strong. The one on the left pressed Bashir's hand to the platform and secured it with the strap. Bashir tried to pull his hand out but the strap was too tight. Schlachter still held his other arm. "What--I don't know what you want from me," Bashir pleaded. He didn't care anymore about appearances or dignity. "I didn't do anything. I've done everything you said."

"Yes," Deyos agreed calmly, "but Commander Riker has not." He turned away from Bashir and clasped his hands behind his back.

Riker had settled Garulos on the deck well within the crowd of prisoners, hoping that he would be forgotten by Deyos and his irrelevant search for truth. He'd been thinking about that. There really was no logical reason to torture any of them, except perhaps Dayton, once the plant had exploded. Not even Formenos. She was guilty and known to be so. Finding ways to make himself or Garulos talk would not rebuild the camp or restore their K Layer project. Riker didn't like the idea of the transport, as it was very likely to take them deeper into Dominion held territory, but at least Deyos had released them back to the prison population. Maybe the transport had made Deyos reevaluate his priorities.

"Tell me, Doctor," Deyos's voice began, causing Riker to look back over his shoulder. "Are you right-handed or left-handed?" Bashir. Bashir had not been released to the rest of the prisoners. He'd gone to prepare a place for Formenos. Riker had expected he'd be back after that.

The crowd on the lower deck was immense and tighty packed, a fact that worked to Garulos's advantage but slowed Riker's progress as he pushed to the front.

Deyos was on the viewscreen. Bashir, framed by Jem'Hadar was behind him. His face paled and he was shaking his head. Riker didn't understand why Deyos would go after Bashir now when he hadn't before.

When Bashir didn't answer, Deyos spoke again. "If you don't answer, I'll have to choose for you."

Bashir open his left hand and his eyes widened. His hand shook.

"Left then," Deyos decided. The Jem'Hadar did not hesitate. The Third held Bashir's right arm while the other secured Bashir's hand to a small raised platform. Riker was glad it wasn't a table or whatever they used to torture Garulos. As it was, they hadn't even made Bashir strip.

But Bashir looked as if he recognized what they were going to do, and he panicked. He didn't have use of his right arm, so he just tried to pull his hand free or break the strap. When neither worked, he resorted to begging. "What--," he started to say. "I don't know what you want from me. I didn't do anything. I've done everything you said."

And with those words, the only sound in the whole cargo hold was a collective gasp. That was not how a Starfleet Officer reacted to a threat of pain or even death for what he believed. That was the reaction of a broken man.

Deyos hardly reacted at all, except to turn away, toward the comm system. "Yes," he said, "but Commander Riker has not."

Riker knew now what Deyos was up to. "He refuses to tell me what his mission was," Deyos went on, addressing Bashir, but talking to Riker. "He won't explain to me his involvement in the destruction of the plant. He and Crewman Garulos have been quite recalcitrant. Even Formenos is telling the same lies. But I know they are lies. I've tried to convince them to tell the truth, Doctor, but they refused. They would sacrifice themselves for those lies. But I've been watching you humans. You Federationers. You hold tight to your ideals. You would sacrifice yourself for your people. Or to protect someone else."

Deyos had already hurt Riker's crew, but he'd not made him watch before. He still hadn't seen Formenos, and he'd only seen Garulos after it was done. He'd watched Bormann and Simmons die, but somehow that was different. He couldn't do anything to stop those. Here, he could.

"So, Doctor," Deyos said. "Why don't you ask him? Commander Riker can see and hear you now. Ask him what his mission is. He can tell the Vorta in the hold and you will be released."

Bashir shook where he stood. His eyes plead with Deyos, whose back was still turned to him. But he didn't answer.

Riker could keep the pain from him, just that easily, but it would likely mean his and Garulos's death. Bashir's, too, maybe. And it was intelligence the Dominion did not need to know the Federation had.

"Ask him," Deyos ordered again.

Bashir clenched his fist under the strap. "No," he said, so quietly that his voice broke. Deyos heard it though, as did everyone watching the viewscreen.

Deyos turned back to him and raised his hand. The Jem'Hadar that had strapped Bashir's hand down now lifted his rifle and brought it slamming down onto Bashir's fist. Under the scream Bashir let out, Riker could hear the cracking of bones. Bashir dropped to the ground, and the Third let him, releasing his right arm. He was still strapped to the platform and couldn't go far. He collapsed over himself as he choked on the pain.

Deyos turned back to the comm system. "Will you tell me your mission, Commander, or shall I continue?"

* * *

Bashir couldn't see. There was only pain. No light, no dark, no up, no down. Just pain, and the memory of pain. Someone opened his broken fingers, laid them flat on the platform, and he felt nauseous and dizzy as the pain washed over him. It would never stop. This was life, one torture after another, pain upon pain.

He didn't hear any words, not from the Vorta or Jem'Hadar in the room, but from the German pacing around him, speaking gibberish he didn't understand. The hammer came down again and pain flashed like lightning in front of his eyes.

His vision cleared and he saw the legs of Jem'Hadar around him, the changeling kneeling in front of him laughing. His chest began to burn and he hated her. He hated the Jem'Hadar, the Vorta, the Nazis, the Federation, Starfleet, Section 31, anyone and everyone who had ever hurt him.

The hammer came down again and, if he screamed, he did not hear it. He hardly even felt it, so strong was that fire in his chest. He only knew it was pain and it had to stop. He would stop it, and no one would hurt him again.

The fire roared in his ears and he became acutely aware of everything around him. The changeling and all visions of the past vanished and he could see Deyos and the four Jem'Hadar. One of the Jem'Hadar on either side of him, and two near the door. The Vorta stood near the wall, watching. He could see them and he could see the mistake they had made. A handle protruded from the boot of the Jem'Hadar on his right. The handle of a knife.

He didn't feel it when the rifle came down on his hand, but he did feel the solidity of the knife's handle beneath his fingers when he drew it from the sheath. He felt the give of fabric and tendon parting beneath the blade as he sliced behind Schlachter's knee. The blood was hot on his hand. At Schachter's pained shout, the other came towards his fallen comrade and Bashir lunged upward with the knife, slitting the second Jem'Hadar's throat and turning, even as his enemy fell, to cut the strap that bound his broken hand to the platform.

"Stop him!" Deyos yelled to the two Jem'Hadar by the door. But there was no stopping him. His hand now free, he slit Schlachter's throat and stood to meet the oncoming threat. The third Jem'Hadar reached him, thrusting the blade on the muzzle of his rifle toward Bashir's chest. But his feet were slightly unsteady on the blood-soaked deck. Bashir's bare feet had better traction. He spun, putting his back to the harmless side of the rifle. He brought his good hand around and slipped the point of the blade between the Jem'Hadar's seventh and eight vertebrae. The Jem'Hadar dropped like a rag doll. That left only one. And Deyos.

* * *

Jordan cringed with each stroke of the rifle. They must have hidden a microphone in the platform because Bashir's screams were horrendously loud, but not loud enough to cover the sound of Bashir's fingers breaking. Jordan remembered seeing that hand after Auschwitz, how it had ceased to resemble a hand at all. He remembered his own arm breaking from a kapos truncheon and how he'd had to carry that pain for hours before he could beam back to the _Defiant_.

But then he saw something he thought he'd never see. Bashir's face filled with unlimited fury. The first Jem'Hadar fell and then the second. It happened so fast and was so unexpected that even the Jem'Hadar in the hold turned in curiosity. Another one fell on the screen.

Jordan caught Riker's eye below. "No more!" he shouted and attacked the guard in front of him.

* * *

Riker could barely believe what he was seeing, though in some ways it worried him more than watching the doctor's hand being broken. Bashir had finally lost his mind. It was awesome and terrible.

Three Jem'Hadar were down before Riker could tear his gaze from that screen. Bashir had lost his mind but had provided an unparalleled opportunity. And Commander Riker did not mean to waste it. He looked up and found Jordan on the next deck looking as shocked as Riker felt. Riker hoped he would seize the chance. Bashir, however inadvertantly, had given them a diversion.

The Jem'Hadar guards had turned, distracted, toward the viewscreen. They had weapons in their favor, but the prisoners had numbers. "No more!" Riker shouted, and then he charged, grabbing the Jem'Hadar in front of him by the neck and hoping Jordan and the other prisoners would join the rebellion.

He wasn't disappointed. Jem'Hadar began to rain down from the decks above. Riker pulled his foe back into the crowd and the men and women there swarmed upon him. The guard struggled, but he couldn't get off a shot. Riker yanked the white tube from his neck and let the prisoners push him down into the deck. They pulled his rifle free and shot him in the face.

Riker found a hand weapon in a holster at the dead Jem'Hadar's waist. He heard weapons fire near the ladder and pushed his way in that direction. If they at all hoped for success they had to get out of the hold and overwhelm the whole ship quickly. The ladders were the only access for the prisoners on the upper decks. There were several muffled cries as prisoners were shot but Riker could see the guards at the ladder fall under the weight of prisoners pressing them from all sides.

Riker saw Jordan as he swung down the ladder, kicking one of the guards in the back of the head. "We've got to get to the Bridge, Engineering, every deck on this ship!" he yelled over the din of six thousand angry prisoners.

Jordan looked to the viewscreen,and Riker followed his gaze. Bashir threw the knife he'd fought with and Deyos slumped to the ground. The hold erupted in cheers. Bashir, however, couldn't hear them and collapsed to the floor, tucking his injured hand close to his chest. "Get up," Riker urged him. The Jem'Hadar had had more than knives. They had rifles. Bashir could take one and join the fight.

"He's dead," Jordan said, finally reaching him. "If no one gets to him soon, the Jem'Hadar will."

"We've got to try and organize these people," Riker replied. "But we don't have time for anything elaborate."

Jordan nodded, then he put his thumb and middle finger to either side of his mouth and whistled. The noise died down, though not entirely. Not all the Jem'Hadar were subdued yet. The Vorta, though, Riker noted, was lying in a heap near the cargo lift doors.

"This is a ship!" Jordan yelled. "We have to take it or they'll kill us all. We are Starfleet officers! We are trained for ships! This is our ship now, find your stations and take them!"

Another cheer went up and Riker nodded. It was a good plan. Engineers would fight for Engineering and so forth. "What's your station?" he asked Jordan.

Jordan smiled. "I'm a starship pilot," he answered. "You?"

"The Bridge then, Lieutenant," Riker ordered with a smile.

Jordan grinned. "Aye, sir!"

It was over. It had stopped. There was still pain but it wasn't new pain. There was no one left in the room to cause it. They were dead. They were dead and he had killed them. It was over, but he was left with the nightmare.

Julian felt like someone else had taken over his body, someone who was capable of things he'd never dreamed. Someone who could kill four Jem'Hadar and a Vorta with only a Klingon knife and a broken hand. Someone that could butcher another sentient being without so much as a thought. That someone wasn't him. He was a doctor. He was a protector of life. He was a soldier, too. He could kill at need, but this wasn't just need. This was a bloodbath. It couldn't be him.

And yet there it was. They were dead and he was free of the platform, cradling his broken, throbbing hand. He felt nauseous. From the pain, from the smell of blood that overwhelmed the room, from the someone inside himself. He was a monster. They were enemies, but he hadn't killed them in battle. It went even beyond self-defense. A murderer lived inside him. A butcher. He retched, but there was nothing in his stomach to vomit. He let his head fall to the cool floor and tried to still his writhing stomach.

It was over. Or it would be soon. There were more than four Jem'Hadar on the ship. They would find him. He couldn't kill anymore. He couldn't live anymore. He didn't want it and he didn't deserve it, not after what he'd become. Life would just mean more pain and he was done with it. Done with it all. They would come and he would die. It was over.

Two hundred prisoners could fit on the lift at one time. Two thousand or more had been on the lower level and these moved out already, leaving their dead and the Jem'Hadar behind. A few stayed to care for the wounded, but well away from the ladders where four thousand more prisoners poured from the decks above. Riker and Jordan were in the front group, racing for the bridge. They met some resistance but their numbers worked in their favor. The Jem'Hader were outnumbered sixty to one. Jordan felt like part of an army, and unstoppable wave. The Jem'Hadar had weapons where most of the prisoners did not, but at close range, energy weapons were less practical and the Jem'Hadar drew their knives. There would be more wounded, and Jordan didn't doubt that he'd be wounded himself before this was over. It would be worth it. He could taste freedom in the stale, recycled air.

The Bridge was not even locked, and Jordan guessed Deyos had not bothered to broadcast the exhibition to the Bridge. Riker pressed the panel and the doors hissed open. The prisoners instantly ducked down as phaser blasts hit the bulkhead behind them. One prisoner was hit, but Jordan didn't recognize him. The rest were safe and those with energy weapons had come to the front. They laid down cover fire while the others fanned out to either side. Jordan peeked around the edge of the door and saw one Vorta and seven Jem'Hadar. The Vorta was wearing a headset. Before Jordan could lift his rifle, Riker had leaned in and fired with his handgun. The Vorta was hit in the chest and fell against one of the Jem'Hadar soldiers.

"Careful of the instruments," Riker ordered quietly. "We're going to need to fly this thing." He took a breath. "On three."

Jordan nodded and saw others doing the same. "One," Riker counted. Jordan took a deep breath. "Two." He let it out. "Three!"

They stood and ran through the door two at a time, spreading out on either side. The Jem'Hadar scored another four hits but Jordan and Riker made it through unscathed and soon these Jem'Hadar, too, were overwhelmed.

Riker stood in the center of the Bridge and removed the headset from the still gasping Vorta. Loris had moved to the comm station. "This part's still Cardassian," she reported. "No transmissions since we left orbit."

"How many in communications range?" Riker asked.

"I'm not all that familiar with Cardassian technology," Loris admitted. "Fifty at least."

Jordan looked over her shoulder and pressed a few controls, widening the display. And his heart sank. "Three hundred, sir," he reported. "We may take the ship, but we won't take the convoy."

"One thing at a time," Riker reminded. He pointed to five people, Loris and Jordan included. "You five are Bridge Officers for the time being. You stay here. Take one weapon and dispose of these bodies. The rest are to organize yourselves in groups of two. I want every part of this ship searched. We need to find Bashir and Formenos and any Jem'Hadar, Vorta, or changeling that might be on this ship. We'll take the ship. Then we'll worry about the convoy."

"I'd rather go out fighting anyway, sir," Festino said, "if I have to go out. No more lottery."

Riker nodded. "No more lottery. We all go together now." Festino saluted and led the others out.

The Bridge became infinitely less crowded as the others left, and only six people remained. "What are your names?" Riker asked.

Loris was the first. "Loris, sir."

Riker nodded. "I know Jordan. You?" He nodded to k'Ruhn who was firing his weapon at a Jem'Hadar at the rear of the Bridge.

k'Rhun looked up and gave his name. Oripic and Cairn followed.

"I'm Commander Riker, if you hadn't gathered that already," Riker said, introducing himself. "Is there another prisoner of a higher rank?"

Jordan shook his head. V'dara had been a Subcommander, but she was gone now.

"Alright then," Riker said, smiling. "I hereby claim this vessel for the Federation. Jordan, you were stationed on DS9, so you know Cardassian technology better than anyone else here, I take it."

Jordan nodded. There were other prisoners that were familiar with Cardassian systems but they weren't among the five Riker had picked.

"Good. Communications is Cardassian, but this helm looks Dominion to me," Riker stated, holding out a hand toward the columns that rose up from behind. "Is anyone we know familiar with Dominion technology?"

Jordan pulled up every face he could remember from his time in the camp. He didn't know the specialties of most of them. But there was one, it just wasn't likely he'd be much help. When Loris and the others didn't offer any names, Jordan spoke up. "We captured a ship once. A Jem'Hadar attack ship. Before the war. But I remember Harkins once saying that the Federation used it at the beginning of the war. Took out a white facility. It wasn't common knowledge. Only one crew was trained to man it."

"Which crew?" Riker asked, and Jordan could tell he was anticipating his answer.

"The _Defiant's_ senior staff with only a handful of others," Jordan replied.

"Am I right in assuming that Bashir is the only one of that crew who is on this ship?"

Jordan nodded. "Yes, sir. If they haven't killed him already." He hoped Riker would order him to find him, but he also knew that others had been given that assignment.

Riker blew out a breath and looked around. "What do we have besides Communications?"

Jordan moved away from the Communications console to the only other station he could recognize. "Sensors and Tactical."

"Tactical sounds promising," Riker commented. He put the headset on and adjusted the panel in front of his eye. "Let me see what we have."

"We don't have much," Jordan reported. He pulled up shield schematics and weapons and ported them to the main viewport, which, of course, had been replaced by that one headset Riker was wearing. "Phasers, limited range and output. Shielding is good, though. This must have once carried some pretty volatile cargo."

Riker grinned. "She's still carrying volatile cargo. You're a pilot. You think you can learn to fly this death trap?"

Jordan met him by the helm and those four upright columns. The colors and shapes on each one meant nothing to him. He couldn't tell which control was propulsion, which was navigation, which was thurst. "Maybe if I had a month and a translation grid." He looked up and met Riker's gaze. "We're going to need Bashir."

* * *

Riker found himself pacing the deck and immediately stopped, but it was a bit maddening waiting without even a chair to sit in. He'd taken the headset off after only half an hour and his head was still pounding. Jordan was wearing it now. He'd managed to get the internal sensors online and was running a scan for Jem'Hadar and Vorta. They could only hope there were no changelings on board. This ship, as near as they could tell, was lagging to the rear of a convoy of nearly three hundred Dominion, Cardassian, and Breen ships. Jordan's sensors had found traces of carbon deposits and other evidence of battle damage. They were heading away from the area of the D'Nexi Lines further into Dominion territory. They would be within range of the Dominion-occupied Kepaolo system within three hours. The Dominion was retreating, but it was taking its prisoners along.

Jordan smacked his hand on the console which spun Riker's attention to him. He was surprised to find Jordan smiling.

"No Jem'Hadar or Vorta lifesigns!" Jordan exclaimed. "However, I am seeing six thousand one hundred and seventeen lifesigns. Federation species and Romulans."

"No Klingons?" Riker asked while he did the math in his head.

"We had one for awhile," k'Rhun replied. "The Lottery got her. The others found no honor in being taken alive."

Riker nodded. "Three hundred sixty lost then. Can you find Bashir or Formenos with that?"

"I can only see species, Commander," Jordan answered. "And part of this ship seems to be shielded from sensors. There might even be Jem'Hadar there."

The door to the Bridge opened and Festino entered with six others. "I'd like to report the ship has been secured, Commander," Festino reported.

That felt good. "Good work," Riker offered. "Did you find our missing people?"

Festino shook his head. "No, sir. Though we did find Bashir. I don't think he's alive, sir. He wasn't moving. We found another room, with a surgical table and medical instruments. There was blood on the table, especially near the head and the sides, but there was no one in the room."

Riker really wanted that chair now. The surgical table had to be Formenos. She had no face, according to Bashir. She'd be bleeding from the head. "What about another woman, dark red hair, dressed in black?"

"No one else, sir."

Riker nodded. Dayton was gone. Not too terribly surprising. He just wished he knew how she did it. And if she'd taken Formenos with her. That only left one then. "Did you check Bashir?"

Festino shifted his feet and looked to one of the others. "He wasn't moving," Festino repeated.

"He's not dead," one of the others near the back said, in a heavily accented voice.

"How do you know?" Riker asked, stepping around Festino to get a better look at the speaker. He was frighteningly thin and pale and his clothing looked older, tattered with faded stripes.

"We watched," Festino admitted, sounding confused. "Two or three minutes. We couldn't even see him breathe."

Riker looked back to Festino. He hadn't heard.

"I will take you to him," the accented one said.

Still confused, and a bit suspicious, Riker dismissed Festino's group, ordering them to gather the wounded and anyone with medical exprience in the area of the surgical table. It was the place he knew that was stocked with at least a few medical supplies. Festino left, but the accented one stayed. "What is your name?" Riker asked.

"Who, sir?" Loris asked.

Riker looked back at her and then the figure near the door. He was there. Riker would bet his life on it. There were even shadows on the wall. "You don't see him?" he asked Loris.

"I do," Jordan stated. He took off the headset and walked over to stand by Riker. "And I think I've seen him before."

"It was a long time ago," the accented one said. "You can call me Szymon. If you want the Engländer, follow me."

"Loris," Riker said. "You have the Bridge. Mr. Jordan, you're with me."

Szymon said nothing as they dutifully followed him down the corridors. "I saw him die," Jordan whispered.

"Auschwitz?" Riker whispered back. Jordan nodded.

Riker remembered Bashir talking about seeing Vláďa on Carello Neru. Riker had thought him a hallucination, but later he'd heard the boy's voice. He wasn't sure anymore what Vláďa or Szymon were. And he still didn't quite trust them. Vláďa had led them to a changeling impersonating a child. Riker kept his hand on his stolen gun and his eyes on the back of Szymon's head.

Szymon stopped in front of a door and stood to one side. Watching him, Riker pressed the panel beside the door. The door opened and he waited for Szymon to enter first. Szymon complied and took up the same spot he'd had on the bridge, just to the right of the door. He had to step over a body to get there.

Riker stood in the door and surveyed the room for a moment. One Jem'Hadar was dead near the doorway. Deyos lay face up on the floor near the comm system, a knife handle protruding from his forehead. Three other Jem'Hadar were scattered around the platform. There was blood on the platform, the floor, and even the walls. And Bashir lay curled forward over his knees in the middle of it. The floor beneath him and around him was relatively clean. None of the blood was his.

Riker could understand why Festino had hesitated. They'd all seen Bashir on the screen. He had been a fury, frighteningly deadly. His movements had been so quick the comm system could hardly keep up. He'd become a berserker.

But now he was quiet and, as Festino had reported, unmoving. He was the man Riker had found in the meeting hall surrounded by corpses. He was broken. But he was alive, just as Szymon had said. Riker saw his back rise and fall slightly as Bashir took a breath.

Riker took a deep breath and stepped inside. The floor was slick so he went slowly, stepping over the corpses that stood in the way. "Julian," he said, as he neared the doctor. "It's over. You can get up now." He knelt and touched Bashir's shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" Bashir growled, tensing under Riker's hand. Riker drew back and nearly fell backwards in surprise. "Go away!"

"I won't go away," Riker replied, keeping his voice calm and soft. Bashir may have been broken, but he was still volatile. "You need help and we're here to help you."

"I don't want help!" Bashir hissed without even picking his head up from the floor. "Leave me alone. It's over. They'll come for me."

Riker looked back at Szymon, but the apparition--or whatever he was--did not speak or even change his disinterested expression. Jordan just shrugged. "Who will come for you?"

"Anyone!" Bashir snapped angrily. "Just go away!"

Did it matter really? Bashir could be thinking of the Nazis, Section 31, or the Dominion. "You have to get up," Riker said, allowing himself to be a bit more stern. "That's an order."

"You're not my commanding officer," Bashir argued, and Riker wished he would at least lift his head and face him. "I resigned! You're always telling me what I've got to do. I've got to listen to the ground; I've got to go to the other airlock; I've got to put on the uniform; I've got to get up. But I don't want to listen anymore. It's all lies. I won't listen. I want to die here. Just go."

"I don't think any of your wounds are life-threatening," Riker told him. "Fine. I won't order you. I'll ask you. Please get up. You're a prisoner in here. But out there--" He pointed to the door. "Out there, the prisoners have taken control of the ship. Out there we aren't prisoners anymore. We're free. You could be free."

"There's no such thing," Bashir breathed and there was no anger in his voice. Just anguish.

At that moment, another head poked in the door. "Excuse me, sir," the man there said. "Loris sent me to find you. She said we're two hours out from Kepaolo."

"Thank you," Riker said, dismissing him. If they didn't get this ship away from the convoy Bashir would be right.

Jordan touched Riker on the shoulder. "Let me try, sir." Riker nodded. He didn't kneel or stoop down but stayed standing and his voice was stern. "Doctor Julian Bashir, I did not risk my life in Auschwitz for you do to lie here in a stupor. Half the crew of the _Defiant_ went to that hell-hole to look for you." He paused for a minute, taking a deep breath, and Riker remembered him saying something along those lines when they'd first met. "They went as Germans. I went as a prisoner. I was counted and starved and beaten. But I found you. I saved you." His jaw was tense as he took another breath. "We all saved you. Your life was bought with a price. You can't just throw it away."

To Riker's surprise, Bashir's head lifted off the floor and he sat up. His left hand was close to his chest, held in a white-knuckled grip by his right. But his face. . . . He wasn't angry so much as confused. "I don't even know you," he said, shaking his head slightly.

Jordan nodded and his voice softened. "And you're just someone who gave me a physical once. That has nothing to do with it. This place is no good. What's out there could be better. It has to be."

"So go there if you want to," Bashir told him. "Try it. You don't know. You think you've been to Auschwitz. For what?" he spat, growing angry again. "A few days? Mornings and evenings? You went home to the ship during the day, back to your comfy bunk and your three meals a day and water any time you wanted it! I would have thought you would have learned after two years in this place. There is no better! It's just one place like this after another. Everything in between is just temporary. A phantom that lulls you into false comfort and security. The world didn't stop hating the Jews after World War II, and none of us are any safer outside this room than in it."

"Are you saying you lied to me?"

* * *

Julian knew that voice, that accent, that disdainful tone. He looked past Riker to see Szymon standing by the door. Julian dropped his eyes and turned his head away.

"You said the world wasn't finished," Szymon said. "You said it wouldn't last. You said it gets better."

He remembered. Szymon eyes had grown hopeful, but his body had become weak. He fell and Julian caught him and held him with his good arm. 'One day,' he'd told him, 'the whole world will be at peace. Paradise, they'll call it, and there'll be no hungry people, no poor. And we'll travel to the stars, Szymon, farther and faster than you can even dream. And we'll meet other people there, from different worlds.'

'How is it . . .,' Szymon had asked, his voice barely more than a whisper as he stared at the smoke-filled sky, '. . . in the stars?'

'It's beautiful, Szymon,' he'd whispered back, leaning in close so Szymon could hear. "Like traveling among diamonds."

"So did you lie," Szymon asked, now kneeling beside him, and Julian realized he'd said that last bit out loud. "Is it not beautiful?"

Julian turned and met Szymon's eyes. They were strong and healthy, not the eyes of the dying man he remembered. "Does it get better, Engländer? Or does it just go from worse to worse? Did you lie to me?" Szymon's eyes knew the answer and they were the kindest Julian had ever seen them. He didn't even look hungry or sick anymore.

Julian shook his head, and Szymon slowly reached for him. Instinctively, Julian tried to back away, but he couldn't the way he was kneeling. Szymon touched his arms and Julian, still frightened, let Szymon take his broken hand from his good one. Szymon slowly pulled it away from Julian's chest. "Did you lie to me?" he asked again.

Julian fought the sob that wanted to give way in his chest. Not his hand. Not again. He shook his head. "I didn't lie," he pleaded.

Szymon nodded and placed his his other hand on Julian's. Bashir's eyes clenched shut and his lungs froze in anticipation of the pain. But there wasn't any. "I know you didn't lie, Bashir," Szymon said. "Open your eyes."

Risking a breath, Julian opened them and looked at his hand now whole and straight. Szymon stood and held his hand to him. Jordan and Riker both gasped and stayed back. Bashir just stared at his hand. He turned it over, closed his fingers. They didn't hurt. They weren't broken. "How?"

Szymon took his hand and raised him up to stand. He placed his other hand on Bashir's shoulder and smiled a secretive smile. "Faith," he said. "Go. Be free."

Bashir still wasn't sure. "We may have the ship," he said, looking to Riker for confirmation. "But it's not the only ship. Is it?"

Riker shook his head. "No."

"A death march," Bashir guessed. He again turned to Szymon. "How?"

Szymon still smiled and his answer hadn't changed. "Faith. Believe, Engländer, or they will all die." And then he was gone and Bashir was left staring at the wall.

"I've lost my mind," he said to Riker and Jordan, "haven't I?"

"I don't know," Jordan replied. "I think you may have found it."

* * *

Riker wasn't sure he hadn't lost his along with Bashir, but Jordan seemed to be right. Bashir looked confused, but no longer shell-shocked or maniacal. He seemed to have found his. Riker had watched his hand reshape itself with Szymon's grip. He'd seen Szymon vanish without the slightest hint of a transporter. But then again, he hadn't seen Vláďa that day either. He'd only heard him.

They all three left that room together and passed a corridor filling up with wounded men and women. Bashir wanted to stop, but Jordan said he was needed on the Bridge more. "Please tell me you know how to fly a Dominion ship," Riker said, clapping Bashir on the shoulder.

"We were cross-trained," Bashir confirmed. "I don't suppose this ship has a chair."

Riker laughed. "No." They were nearly to the Bridge. "So who was that one?" he asked. "One of your friends?"

"Szymon?" Bashir asked in return, but he shook his head as he stepped through the door. "Szymon never really did like me."

Riker was surprised to see not three but more than twenty prisoners--ex-prisoners--filling the Bridge.

"What will we do, sir?" one of them asked.

Riker took a breath and looked at Bashir. "We're going to fly this ship."

Festino's eyebrows came together in doubt above his eyes. "I want to be free as much as anyone, sir, but we aren't going to just turn this hulk around and fly the other way."

"No, we aren't," Bashir said. He walked to the helm and stood before the columns. He looked once more at his restored hand and then placed it on the screen in front of him. "I am." His face became serious as he worked the controls. "Some of you are Christians?"

"Aye, Captain," Jordan said, drawing a glance from Riker. Well, it fit. Riker couldn't command this ship. Whatever Szymon was, he'd healed Bashir's hand and maybe his spirit, and he had said Bashir was the one to save the ship. Captain, indeed.

"Well," Bashir said. "You might want to start praying. Coming about."

Riker felt the pull on the deckplates as the big ship turned. Unwittingly, he found himself praying that the huge cargo ship wouldn't knick any of the others as she turned. And that none of the others would care that they were leaving the convoy.

Loris called out from Communications. "They're hailing!"

Bashir looked up from the Helm. "Commander, do you think you could. . . ."

"Stall them?" Riker asked.

Bashir laughed. "Well, I was thinking of disabling the console, but if you want to try--"

Riker felt a lift in his own mood. Either Bashir was still insane, or this just might work. "Disabling sounds good to me," he replied, "Captain." He turned to Loris, who was looking a bit shell-shocked herself. "Mr. Loris, would you mind stepping away from the console."

"Oh, dear heavenly Father," he heard Jordan pray, in a not-very-pious tone, behind him, "Give us courage and, please, give us faith."


	8. Chapter Eighteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**Faith: Part III, Peace**

By Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eighteen**

All they could do was sit back and wait. And pray. Jordan had left the bridge to gather with the other Christians for that task. There were some four hundred down in the cargo hold. Garulos, Riker had learned, had been taken up to the make-shift sickbay. There were no other doctors among the prisoners, but there were some medtechs and nurses. Riker hoped they could do something for him.

Bashir was more lucid than he'd been since he left _Enterprise_ and was handling the helm with quiet competence. It wasn't really hard since they were mostly going in one heading. The ship was too large and unwieldy for tight evasive maneuvers. While, amazingly enough, the Dominion ships had first not fired and then had missed at least twenty shots in a row, they had obviously worked out the kinks in their targeting sensors. Riker figured they had taken the convoy by surprise when the ship suddenly turned. But now they were aware and determined to get the cargo ship back in line. Or destroy her.

The cargo ship--she needed a name, Bashir had said--was well-shielded, but not nearly so strong in firepower. She had phasers: six banks. One to each the bow and stern and two along either side. But they were not quite a match for even the fifty ships that had broken away from the convoy to come after them. They'd been taking hits for the last ten minutes. It had only been twenty minutes since Bashir took the helm.

"Shields dropping to sixty percent," Loris reported from Tactical. Another hit caused the Bridge to tilt slightly to starboard. "Minor damage to outer hull plating. So far."

"Comments like that aren't exactly helpful," Bashir reminded her. Riker realigned the inertial dampers while Bashir adjusted the helm and the ship righted itself. "I don't even know anymore," the doctor went on. "I thought they were hallucinations. But Vláďa and now Szymon. . . . I didn't just imagine my hand being broken."

"I was there," Riker told him, "or I wouldn't believe it myself. And I wouldn't believe this either." He waved his hand around to indicate the ship. "Except for the fact that we still have working engines, we're a sitting duck. But they haven't even pulled our shields down yet. Why do you suppose that is?"

"Faith?" Bashir asked. "I just believe and those Dominion ships out there are going to stop shooting? That hasn't happened yet. And I was believing it for a while there. My hand was broken. I could feel it." He stopped and looked up from the helm. "So what was he that he could do something like that? Changelings can't heal people the last I heard."

"Or disappear into thin air," Riker added. "Melt into the floor perhaps but not just wink out like that."

"Right," Bashir agreed. "Hallucinations can't see around corners or hold doors open or heal a broken hand either. So what was he?"

Oripic and Cairn looked at each other and apparently decided to stay out of the debate. "Jordan and the others would say he was an angel," Loris said as another hit shook the ship. "Fifty-five percent. Forward shields are still a bit higher."

"Well, they're mostly shooting from behind us," Bashir reasoned. "Let's put the difference to the aft shields. And cut whatever else is unnecessary. If we can get everyone not running this ship into the hold, we can cut power to all the unused compartments. And what if I don't believe in angels or ghosts?"

"Neither do I," Riker said as Loris motioned to k'Ruhn, who left the Bridge immediately. Riker ran a quick diagnostic to see what damage they had from the last hit, but already two more struck the aft shielding. "But then again, six hundred years ago they didn't believe in atoms and ions. Damn."

"What?" Cairn asked

Bashir closed his eyes for a moment and gripped the edges of two of the columns.

"Long-range sensors," Riker replied but then spoke to Bashir. "You want me to take that thing for a bit?" The headset Bashir was wearing was giving him a headache, something he'd said was common to every human that had tried to wear it for any length of time. Garak, however, had had no such problem.

Bashir took it off and rubbed his temple. "That would be great, Commander. Just let me know if I'm about to collide with something." He tossed the headset and Riker caught it. The thought did occur to him that the ship might not survive long enough for the headset to cause him a headache. But he decided he'd rather believe Szymon was an angel and that Bashir really could save them just by believing he could. It was ridiculous, but it was the only scenario that didn't involve a fiery inferno or recapture by the Dominion.

The ship rocked again and this time it was much more violent. "Direct hit to the port lateral shield generators," Loris reported. "We're losing them."

"Cut life support, lights, everything to everywhere we don't need people to be," Bashir ordered. "See if there isn't some sort of siren to warn everyone. They've got to get out of there now."

"I should have something here," Loris said. "Pardon my saying so, sir, but I think you need to stop being negative before they put a hole in our hull."

"Me? Negative?" Bashir said, putting on hand to his chest in mock hurt. "Nothing about this situation would logically lead to negativity, crewman."

Loris smiled. "Who gives a damn about logic, sir? There are no Vulcans on the Bridge. I just want to survive. If that means I have to stand on my head and sing nursery rhymes, I'll do it."

* * *

Bashir laughed at that. He wanted to say that it would certainly be amusing but he didn't see how it would make the Dominion stop shooting at them, but he didn't. That would be negative. Negativity was apparently not the route to salvation for the good ship What-ever-her-name-is. But it wasn't easy being positive. He'd had a lot more experience with pessimism this last half year or so than optimism. And broken hand or not, the facts of the universe--or at least this quadrant--hadn't changed. The Dominion was still allied to Cardassia and the Breen were still allied to the Dominion. And all three were still bent on taking over the Alpha Quadrant. Which left the Federation all too desperate to stop them. _Inter arma enem silent leges,_ he thought. Ross's words fit too well with what he saw of the Federation, and especially Section 31. They were still out there, too. And it was still apparent that they hadn't given up on him yet.

One thing had changed, though. Himself. Julian Bashir no longer wanted to die. He didn't want to give up and let Section 31 make him 'disappear'. He didn't want to sit in a pool of self-pity and wait for the universe to end. These other prisoners had seized a chance--an infinitesimal chance--at freedom, and they had fought for it with their whole beings. Many had fought the Jem'Hadar with bare hands, giving up their lives so that the others might go free. And Bashir, when his hand had knit back together in Szymon's grip--whatever he was, had started to sense that maybe there was something worth fighting for. Something worth fighting the Dominion, worth fighting Section 31, and worth fighting his own demons.

And if Szymon was an angel, well, his demons were still right there taunting him with every shot that shook the ship and decreased the power to their shields.

"We're not going to survive by fighting them," was what he said instead. "We need to outrun them, outlast them. Take the phasers offline. Divert power to the engines. We need to keep them at our backs as much as possible."

"Phasers offline," Riker acknowledged, and the ship surged ahead to Warp 8.6. The .3 increase in speed didn't impress the enemy, however. They were warships and warships could almost always outrun cargo freighters. They continued to slam torpedoes against the freighter's shields and Loris continued to report the corresponding decrease in shield strength.

Faith. Szymon had said faith was how his hand was healed and faith would save the ship. Faith in what? Bashir had lost his faith a long time ago. He'd told Riker the only one he could trust was himself but even that had been proven wrong when Deyos ordered the breaking of his hand. He could not even control himself. How then could he have trust in himself?

In others then? He could no more trust them than himself. The Federation? The Federation included Section 31. The Christian God? He wasn't ready to believe that such a thing existed. Szymon and his kind? He wasn't yet sure what they were, and if he didn't believe in God, he had a hard time believing in angels or ghosts. And yet, Captain Sisko had had visions of the Prophets. Visions though. Visions couldn't touch a person.

There was a terrible concussion that rang in his ears and he was thrown to the deck. "We've lost forward shields," Loris reported, as she picked herself up and worked her console. "We've got nothing else to sacrifice at this point."

_Except my doubts_, Bashir thought. Klaxons were blaring, red lights flashed on and off, and the deck continued to pitch with each new hit. He used the edge of the console to pull himself up. The engines were holding at warp 8.6. By his own estimates, they would reach the edge of the D'Nexi Lines in two hours. They just had to remain in one piece.

"Is there any power allocated to communications?" he asked. "We can do without that."

"Hard to port!" Riker exclaimed and Bashir obeyed without waiting for an explanation. "You were right about this headset."

Riker's head would be pounding by now. "Let me know when I can get us back on course," Bashir said.

"Starboard!" Riker replied. "They're all around us like a swarm of bees."

"I don't suppose we can just stay on course and see if they flinch first," Oripic suggested.

"Cardassians maybe," Bashir told her. "But not Jem'Hadar, unless they've got a changeling on board."

Another explosion caused consoles and displays to spark on the bridge, though, thankfully, the helm remained functional.

"Won't matter now," Riker said. He took off the headset and threw it to the floor. "Sensors are gone."

They were flying blind. The phrase 'blind faith' sprang to Bashir's mind. It seemed appropriate to the circumstances. Maybe he didn't need to think so hard, or so big. Maybe all he had to have faith in was the challenge set before him. _Believe,_ Szymon had said, _or they will all die._ And Bashir realized something: Faith was a choice.

He didn't want to die, and he didn't want all the other prisoners to die. So he would choose to believe. They were going to make it.

"Find me every ounce of energy you can, Mr. Loris," he said. "We're not done with this yet."

"With no sensors?" she asked, letting her own doubt win.

"We know what's out there," Bashir answered. "They haven't rammed us yet. Maybe they do have Founders on board. We're going to keep running until we reach the Federation fleet."

She nodded crisply. "Aye, sir."

With each new hit against the aft shields or hull plating, Bashir chose faith again. He kept telling himself they would make it. He could tell when the aft shielding fell by the intensity of the jolt that pushed him forward into the helm. Loris and Riker didn't say anything but worked to reroute whatever power remained from the shields to the engines. Bashir pushed her up to warp 8.8.

Then he had an idea. He checked their position against the starcharts and dropped to warp 7, hoping none of the ships chasing them were right behind them. When the freighter didn't explode, he dropped out of warp altogether. As soon as the ship settled into impulse, he plotted a new course thirty-five degrees to starboard and went again to warp.

For four minutes, not a single shot fell on the ship. "Whatever you did," Riker said, during the lull, "I like it."

"I just bought us some time," Bashir replied, relaxing for the first time since before Formenos had been brought aboard. He wondered why they hadn't found her, but he had an idea where she might have gone. "They'll be back. So what will we name her?"

"If she doesn't get--" Loris started.

"She won't," Bashir interrupted. "Go on."

"Maybe 'Freedom'," she suggested.

"'Freedom' sounds good to me," Riker agreed. They both sat on the floor in front of the darkened tactical station.

"_Freedom_ it is then," Bashir said.

And just like that, the moment was over. A jolt shook the bridge and he was pushed hard into the helm again. He knew he couldn't trick them for long. Their long-range sensors would have picked _Freedom_ up again instantly. He set his course back to the D'Nexi Lines. The previous change had gained them four minutes of quiet, but it had added light-years to their course. It would still take nearly two hours to reach the fleet he hoped was still there.

Another hit and Bashir lost helm control. He could feel the ship slow to impulse. Then it stopped completely. "I've lost the helm," he told the others. "The engines are down."

But strangely the firing stopped. "Sensors?" Bashir asked and Riker jumped up to reroute the power that had been allocated to the engines.

"They're weak," he reported. "Three ships approaching within one hundred meters. I can't make out their configurations."

"Why aren't they trying to board us?" Loris asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Life support is down almost everywhere but the Bridge and cargo hold," Riker explained. "I'm sure even Jem'Hadar need air to breathe."

"The hold's too crowded," Bashir said, thankful for their numbers. "Anybody would have to be insane to try and beam into the middle of six thousand people and expect to take over."

"There's Engineering," Oripic pointed out.

"They're armed down there," Riker countered. "They can fight there as well as we can here."

Loris nodded and put her attention back to the sensor readings. She slapped the console a few times as it dimmed. "We lost the sensors again," she complained. "But I saw something just before that. Life support has been reintialized on every deck."

* * *

"Maybe they _are_ going to board," Riker concluded.

Bashir turned so he could sit and lean back on the helm columns. He rubbed his hands over his face and wondered what he supposed to believe now. The odds were against them, but he was supposed to believe they would still make it. Maybe the armed prisoners could fight off the boarders and the engineers could find some way to get _Freedom_ moving again before the next round of boarders.

And maybe the Federation fleet had won at D'Nexi, which prompted the liquidation of the camp and the convoy headed deeper into Dominion space. Maybe the Federation was chasing the convoy. Maybe _Freedom_ was closer than they thought.

"Can you get us a feed to the cargo hold?" he asked.

Riker knelt in front of the communications console and reconnected the cables he'd pulled apart before. Instantly, the console came to life and began beeping. He stood and examined the readings there. "That's sporting of them," he commented. "Someone's hailing. Signal's weak, though. I can't say who is calling and I don't think we could answer if we tried."

"What about the hold?" Bashir repeated. "If most of our people are down there, so are most of our weapons."

Riker shrugged. "You think anybody down there knows Morse Code?"

* * *

Jordan heard the tapping and quietly left the circle. The large screen on the forward wall had come on but there was no picture. The tapping, though, was coming from there.

He ended up standing next to k'Ruhn. "You know Morse Code?" the Kesselian asked him.

Jordan shook his head, but Festino spoke from the other side of k'Ruhn. "...Weapons to take positions," he said, reading the dots and dashes in the taps. He turned to face them. "We're being boarded."

"Then let's do what it says," Jordan said. He pushed through the crowd to stand under the screen. The hold had quieted down when the ship stopped, so they had no trouble hearing him now. "Pass all weapons to the front!" he shouted. "We need to fight for this ship! We are being boarded!"

Many of those in the front were already armed and they came out to stand by Jordan. The others further back either pushed to the front or passed their weapons forward to someone further up. There had been approximately one hundred and fifty Jem'Hadar on the ship, each armed with at least a rifle and handgun. Some had also carried knives. That meant about three hundred armed prisoners. When about fifty had gathered at the front, he took them into the cargo lift, leaving Festino and k'Ruhn to gather more. Jordan would take his fifty to fan out on Deck A. Festino and k'Ruhn would follow on B and C Decks.

The lift opened on A and Jordan led his group out. They split into groups of five and spread themselves out. He ended up near an intersection where he could see the entrance to the bridge and Kerry's group beyond that.

They didn't have to wait long. Five shapes glittered into existence ten meters aft of Jordan's position. "Behind us," he ordered as he ran back there.

They each took aim on one of the materializing figures, but lowered their weapons when the saw who had boarded their ship.

"Jordan?" Captain Sisko said, obviously surprised.

"I'm not as dead as you think I am," Jordan replied, smiling broadly. "It is very good to see you again, sir. You are an answer to prayer!"

"You know this man?" the balding captain next to Sisko said.

"Sorry," Sisko apologized. "Lieutenant Jordan, this is Captain Picard, Commander Data, and Doctor Crusher of the _Enterprise_."

Jordan shook hands with each of them. Data was not overly tall but very pale with gold eyes. Crusher had red hair and a friendly face. Then he turned to the short, dark-headed Trill lieutenant beside Sisko. "I'm Ezri Dax," she said, and Jordan paused.

"Ezri?" he asked, not extending his hand. Dax was a tall, confidant science officer. "What happened to Jadzia?"

Ezri offered him a gentle smile. "She died nearly a year ago. I'm Dax's new host. I'm sure this is quite a shock, but we'll need to discuss it some other time."

"We scanned this ship," Picard said. "You have over six thousand on board. No Jem'Hadar or Vorta?"

Ezri was right. Jadzia would have to wait. "We took the ship," Jordan said with pride. "There are no Dominion personnel on board anymore."

"Are you in charge then?" Data asked.

Jordan grinned. "No, sir," he said. "I think you need to speak to our captain. Myers can take the doctor to the wounded. We could certainly use her help."

Picard nodded and Myers led Crusher aft. "Is anyone else beaming aboard?" Jordan asked, hoping he could tell the others to stand down.

"Not at this time," Sisko replied.

Holman obviously had similar thoughts. "I'll let the others know," she volunteered.

Jordan let her go and led other four to the Bridge. "It's Jordan!" he called as the door began to open. It was good that he had, because at least three of the people on the Bridge were armed and their weapons were being lowered by the time the doorway fully opened.

* * *

"It's Jordan!" came the voice from the corridor and Riker motioned that the others should lower their weapons. Bashir had kept up the silent mantra as he stood behind Riker on the now useless Bridge. He let himself sigh when he heard Jordan's voice but kept up the mantra in his head. He didn't want his doubt to win out and cost them all their lives.

But when the door opened, he let the mantra go. It had worked.

"Number One!" Captain Picard exclaimed as he stepped through the door. "I should have known you'd be in charge here."

"I'm not," Riker replied and turned to the side. "He is." He held his hand toward Bashir, who felt a little out of rank.

Behind Picard was a familiar face. One he had once looked up to, and recently looked down upon. Now it attempted to fill him pride even as it regarded him warily "Well," Bashir said, "you have good timing. I'll give you that."

He was puzzled by his own feelings at seeing Captain Sisko. When Sisko had met him at the airlock on DS Nine, Bashir had felt like the deck under his feet had flipped upside down. But now, on this battered cargo freighter, it felt solid. Sisko had come, and they would survive.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sisko replied. "One more hit might have done you in." He stepped out of the way and Ezri and Data appeared behind him.

Ezri didn't look as happy to see him as he felt seeing her. She looked worried. And maybe a little disgusted. "Are you alright, Julian?" she asked, and Bashir remembered his clothes were covered in blood and grime.

"I haven't been," he admitted, "but I feel much better now." He forgot about his filthy clothes and embraced what he was feeling. "Welcome to the Federation ship _Freedom_," he said, knowing that he meant it.

**Epilogue**

Bashir welcomed Data on board as well and thanked Picard for offering to tractor the _Freedom_ back to Starbase 186. But otherwise he left them with Riker to coordinate the transfer of wounded to the surrounding Federation and Romulan ships. "How many?" he asked Captain Sisko when they found a moment of quiet.

"The main body of the fleet dispersed," Sisko told him. "Only two hundred six stayed with us to chase the Dominion back."

"Then it was lucky for you we happened along," Bashir said. "There were three hundred in the convoy when we turned this ship around. Only fifty or so broke off to chase us."

Sisko smirked at that, then he blew out his breath. "I still don't understand how this ship is still in one piece." Bashir knew, but he still didn't quite understand. He looked for Ezri and found her talking with Jordan. "Captain," he said, turning back to Sisko, "would you walk with me?"

Sisko seemed unsure but nodded. Bashir led the way but stopped just before the door. "Oh, you have the Bridge, Mr. Riker."

Riker looked up and waved with a smile. "Aye, Captain."

"I thought you had resigned," Sisko said as they stepped into the corridor.

"Commander Riker thought I was safer in uniform than out," Bashir admitted. "Besides, I've been thinking I might like to stay in Starfleet a bit longer."

They passed the corridor where Crusher and several nurses were tending the remaining wounded. She was busy with her work and paid the two captains no attention. Bashir was finding it rather enjoyable being captain of his own ship, even if only for a day. But he really wanted to get back to doing what she was doing.

"A transfer then?" Sisko asked.

Bashir shook his head as they walked to the next door and stopped. "I don't think I'll need one," he answered. He touched the panel beside the door. It opened and he faced his own failure once again. He stepped aside so Sisko could see and took a deep breath. "I killed them," he said finally. "I could only think of one thing: no more pain. They were causing me pain, or threatening it, so I killed them."

"I don't understand," Sisko said stepping back so the door would close. He turned to face Bashir. "But I'm glad they're dead and not you."

Bashir watched his face, his eyes, to see if that was true. "Was the _Defiant_ ordered to D'Nexi?" he asked.

"No," Sisko replied, shaking his head. "We were ordered to find the _Dnieper_, Riker's runabout. We found it with your clothes aboard. We came to D'Nexi looking for you. We just happened to run into a battle."

Bashir could find no trace of insincerity in his eyes. Sisko really had taken the _Defiant_ into the battle to find him.

"I told the senior staff," Sisko went on. "Except for Odo. You can talk to Ezri now."

Bashir had mixed feelings about that. A weight lifted off his shoulders just knowing he didn't have to hide Sisko's secret anymore, but now Ezri and the others were accessories like him. "What you did," he said, "is still wrong, but so is this. They were the enemy but that wasn't a battle. I could have taken a rifle from the first one to fall. But I wanted to use the knife. I wanted them to bleed and hurt like they'd hurt me. But more than anything, I just wanted them to stop hurting me."

He took another breath and Sisko waited for him to continue. "I can understand why you may have done what you did. Anyway, you asked how we managed," he told his captain. "They broke my hand in that room. Then a dead man healed it and said I had to believe or we'd all die."

Sisko dropped his eyebrows at that ludicrous explanation and Bashir wanted to laugh with him. But Sisko didn't laugh. "You almost did anyway" he said instead.

Bashir nodded. "Except that you showed up with such impeccable timing. So you see, Captain, you managed it after all. You restored my faith."

Sisko was quiet for a moment. Then he let out his own breath and relaxed his shoulders. "Let's go home then. You can get cleaned up on the _Defiant_."

Bashir smiled and let the dream of a shower and a soft bunk wash through him for a minute. He was suddenly very tired and quite hungry. But he started back for the Bridge. "No, thank you, sir," he said, smiling through a yawn. "This is my ship and I'll see her home. Besides, I dare say it will be quite awhile before I captain a ship again."

Sisko smiled too and clapped a hand gently on his shoulder. "Maybe not as long as you think."

* * *

"Eline?"

Her eyes shifted but they couldn't see, not even the blurry shapes they had made out before. It was Pfenner's voice though, and she wondered if she had died, too. She felt no pain, so that fit her theory, but she wondered why she could hear and not see.

"Eline, it's Wilhelm. Try not to move to much. We're going to help you."

Help? Move? Maybe she wasn't dead after all. She flexed the fingers of her right hand experimentally. Pain shot through her fingers and sped up her arm. Without meaning to, she let out a cry. She heard a slight splash and felt a hand on her arm. Maybe Bashir had returned. "I think I'm delirious," she told him.

"No," Pfenner's voice replied. "Try this."

Cool, soft liquid dripped onto her right eye and then her left. She wanted to blink but she could not get her eyes to close. After a few seconds, though, her vision began to clear. She saw a ceiling and Pfenner's face above her. The ceiling was fuzzy to her eyes, but Pfenner was clear enough though the room they were in was not well-lit. She looked down and saw her own body covered in a milky liquid.

"It dulls the pain," Pfenner said "and keeps you from infection. Lie still and let it soothe you." It was already doing that. Her hands didn't burn if she didn't move them. "You see? You're going to be fine."

Then there was another voice, "Ah, I see our patient has woken up." A woman's voice, one Formenos thought she had heard before. A dark head appeared opposite Pfenner's.

"Dayton!" Formenos whispered in her surprise.

"How nice of you to remember me," Dayton said. "Eline, would you like to have a face again?

_The End_

copyright 2004 Gabrielle Lawson


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